


The Shadow of Conquest

by Sintagon



Series: The Saga of Dagon [1]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Rehabilitation, Sint's brain is bad, Unhealthy Relationships, War, We're in for a long one lmao, World of Warcraft: Battle for Azeroth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:35:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 16
Words: 74,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23684749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sintagon/pseuds/Sintagon
Summary: Though the Fourth War has come to a close, the Shadow of Conquest now falls upon the land.  Allies both new and old come together under the banner of the Shadow of War as she marches to finally destroy this ghost of her past.  She is Sint Dagon, and she is troubled.  It is no small feat that she manages to hold herself together in the face of death, pain, and loss.  Will she manage to keep it together in the face of the Dark Lord of Conquest?And even if she can, will the Heroes of Azeroth follow her into battle against this malevolent foe?  This is a tale of struggle and despair, of hope and healing.  The story of the endless struggle between War and Conquest, the heralds of the apocalypse.
Series: The Saga of Dagon [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1914748





	1. Echo of Fire

Fire is fleeting. The heat, the frenzy… it dies eventually. There’s no fuel that can sustain fire eternal, but the memory of that heat can never die. Chasing an echo of the fires that once came may bring truth to light, or it may allow the flame to rage once again. So the Highlands were chosen, where the greatest display of fire’s fury had ever been seen. The place where the Colossus of War was born, a myth and legend that still permeated Azeroth’s military to this day. Sint knew the myth well, for it was attributed to her. By no mistake, she knew that none particularly were willing to believe that Sint was the one who caused that great inferno to appear. Already did she carry an infamous legacy, already did she carry so many feats that drove many to fear her, leaving most to be truly unwilling to grant more terrors to her name. But she knew fully well what she had done.

Though the myth speaks of a golden hero falling from the heavens, a mighty man of molten gold and titanic height with a blazing axe and a horned helm, who cracked the earth with his colossal might and threw fire and flame into the heavens through the power of the Light; the truth was no less mythical, it was just that the Light had not given her chosen people an avatar of War to fight their war for them. The truth was terrifying. Shadowy forces had fallen once more upon the Highlands, and Sint was carrying a great rage with her when she fell upon the shadow’s cohorts. Both Horde and Cult suffered setback after setback as this new marshal crushed their efforts, before they finally faced her in battle. This war had taken near everything from Sint Dagon, so in a fit of fury; she unleashed the full might of her family’s blood. From within her came fire, a blaze that raced towards the heavens. It boiled the river, devoured the ground, scorched the clouds. It turned her foes to ash, her army lucky to have been retreating as she exploded.

It was a victory and a terrible reminder of the Dagon family’s power. In the awakening of fire, Sint revealed to the world that there were more powers out there than the Light and Chaos. There were things within mankind, within other sentient beings, that could put fear into these cosmic forces. A fear she manipulated as she fought Void and Shadow, a power she allowed to be realized by many others. A power she refined later on, in battle against those who possessed similar yet fouler abilities. But where did this strength rise from? This is what she wanted to know.

Standing at the edge of a crater she had created, Sint looked down to find a single clue of what Dragonfire meant. An echo of the pure fury she unleashed that day. She slid down the slope leading down to where she collapsed, kicking up a great deal of ash. Holding her breath, Sint hoped to not breathe in the remains of the people she disintegrated that day. Her boot hit solid ground as she reached the middle, where the ash refused to pool. An invisible pressure denied anything purchase to the ground where Sint stood, the pillar of unleashed sorrow bursting from her body. She knelt down, all too familiar with this pressure. It was the same pressure her gaze carried, the same pressure she felt whenever she unleashed her power. Residual draconic rage, an undying echo of the inferno that once raged here.

She knelt down to study the ground, pulling one of her gloves off to feel the soil with bare skin. The ground felt strange. Where dirt was moist and easy to manipulate, it felt as if this dirt had been turned to brittle stone. It was hard, solid, yet easy to break through with her fingers. It broke in almost geometric forms, clumps of cubes and jagged prisms instead of clumps of mud. Rather peculiar, Sint decided to stand and take a look around herself, to see if anything similar had manifested nearby. That was, until she caught something at the corner of her vision. She drew her sword, pacing carefully into the center of the crater. There was a pattern, almost a symbol, stretching out from the center. A few deft swipes broke fallen debris out of the crevices of this pattern, leaving a fairly distinct marking in the ground. Unknown to Sint, she chose to mark this down in her mind, soon leaving the crater to study the rest of the destroyed forest.

“Didn’t jot that symbol down?” Sint came alone, but with the company she carries, she was never truly alone. The voice’s owner draped her arms over a crouching Sint, the scent of oranges filling her senses.

Sint put the piece of metal she was studying down, placing a hand on this person’s metal arm. A smile crossed Sint’s face, “Geneva, you came.”

“Of course I’d come. This stuff’s personal to you.” Geneva pulled back, walking around to take a look at what Sint was studying. Geneva Dagon. Spymaster and assassin, she’s been Sint’s closest friend and ally ever since they were children. Once an Algol, she gladly gave up her name when Sint proposed to her a year prior. She and Sint made an odd couple; as where Sint appeared Dark and Intense, Geneva was bright and easygoing. Vibrant orange hair, pale freckled skin, and a pair of big and bright eyes made Geneva stand out in most crowds, in fact. That mane of frizzy hair was hard to miss, at the very least. Reaching out with a metal hand, Gene lifted up the hunk of scorched black metal that Sint put down. She gave it a perplexed look, “Hard to make out who this belonged to once. Even the Horde’s metal can’t survive the heat you throw around.”

“Hm.” Sint looked a little to the side.

“Sint? What’s up?” Gene set the metal down, leaning forward to catch Sint’s gaze. 

A wayward look was thrown the way of a cave entrance nearby, revealed by her scorching flame a year ago. The place she was dragged by Geneva, the place where Geneva first expressed her true feelings to Sint. It left a bitter note in Sint’s mouth, that day, for it was the day she also rejected Geneva’s feelings. She looked back to Gene, “I’m not sure about this.”

“About what? The gift?” Gene stood up sharply, “Because I’m pretty sure about it. Sure it’s made you into a legend. Keeps food on our table because people keep asking around for your Blades.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about.” Sint grumbled, “It’s what I saw in my anger. All of my family drew their swords and stood by my side, all of them. Even my father. But I also saw a dragon, and I saw…”

“Don’t keep me waiting.” Geneva put her hands on her hips, peeking around the area while Sint spoke.

“I saw Death.” Sint’s words were almost too absolute. They dragged on through the air, javelins of black fear thrust into the rather upbeat mood that had now been forced away. Geneva stumbled backwards, tripping over a discarded weapon. Leaping to her feet, Sint caught Gene’s hand before she hit the ground. Honest concern washed over Sint’s features, “Geneva! Are you okay?!”

Gene blinked rapidly, taking a deep breath as she was now held in the strong arms of her wife, “Uh… Yeah. Sorry. That just… Hit me out of nowhere. Death? Death. DEATH!? What do you mean!?”

“I mean I saw Death. Among the armies I conjured, the destruction I wrought, I looked toward the distance and saw a black leviathan rise from the sea, washing over the land. I’m certain I was unconscious by then, but it destroyed the flames I left, leaving naught but the ghosts of perdition in my wake. It claimed them all, dragging them back to the depths it rose from. I cannot call it anything else but death, Geneva.” Sint rested her chin on Gene’s shoulder, “I might have come out here to look for it.”

“Death... Sinny, okay. This sounds exactly insane. Sounds like every nuts dream you’ve had that’s come true in the past, too.” She bit her lip, “I don’t want it to be true, but… The evidence says I’m wrong.” Gene turned around, taking Sint’s hands into her own, “But, you don’t have to search alone. You have Koda, you have Dengarl. You have me.”

Sint couldn’t look her in the eyes. Looking to the ashen soil beneath them, the very soil she cast hundreds of strong men and women into… she shuddered. Shaking her head, she spoke anew, “So many… How many more must pledge themselves to me, to die.”

“It doesn’t matter! I don’t care how many things you’ve seen, how many horrors we’ve fought because of what you see… It’s your sight that lets us beat back these monsters before they can cause more harm.” Geneva let go of Sint’s hands, placing them around Sint’s cheeks, pulling her face close, “You’ve done so much right. Let us keep doing that.”

Sint looked into Gene’s pleading eyes, having a hard time figuring out what to say. She opened her mouth a few times to only have nothing leave. Little time passed until she mustered some courage to speak again, “I don’t know if I can do it. Lead them into Death.”

“You don’t have to do it alone.” Geneva brought her forehead to Sint’s, “We’re here. I’m here. That weight doesn’t need to be on your shoulders alone.”

It would have been a touching moment. Sint and Geneva kissing on a field of destruction, vowing together to find an enemy anew. But Sint knew, deep down, that this new foe was something far more pernicious than the Lord or King. If only through so much death and devastation did such a being reveal itself to her, be it by accident or otherwise, it held a higher station within this world than a simple commander or cult-master. It hid in the veil of that which lay far beyond, clouded by black obscurity, high within the apathetic stars. Where it chose to persist, to remain, was beyond mortal comprehension. There was a real, palpable dread that Sint felt fill her being. Whatever it was, whatever “Death” was in her vision, it was more than anything she’d seen before. That, or it knew exactly how to play her mind. For now, Sint knew that she’d have to fight alone. The kiss was not denied, but it wasn’t sweet. It didn’t bring joy to Sint. Her love for her wife was stronger than ever, but she knew that she was endangering her and everyone she loved once again because of a dream. The Echo of Fire had drawn her to find what came after the fire’s radiance, a path of treacherous shadow leading to the things that shunned the fleeting light a flame gathered with it. Bittersweet. Love at this moment was bittersweet.

She held Geneva close, even as the kiss broke. Sint didn’t want to let go, to leave the peace she had won. But it haunted her dreams, this Death. This thing, as if an oil slick of the night’s sky had descended to the mundane, to devour the land. A black hole of life and light, of familiarity and comfort. An alien presence, all too similar to her greatest adversary. Sint looked to Geneva, to her smile, trying to find comfort. All she felt was the distance.

Geneva could see the pain in Sint’s eyes. She placed her hand on her wife’s cheek, stroking it. A single tear fell down Sint’s face, “I’m sorry, Geneva. I-...”

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me, Sint. I understand.” She leaned back, pulling her hand from Sint’s face, “Your war isn’t over. The call to arms hasn’t been rallied yet.” She pushed away, patting off her burgandy pants for the ash that seemed to only be able to fall on her, not Sint. Looking away, Gene sighed, “But when you need us, and push us away, I’ll come with the army. You won’t get to fight like you fought the Lord. We lost you then, and I’m not about to lose you again, okay?”

“Geneva…” Sint trailed off before she said anything particularly meaningful.

“I’m leaving back to Dragonguard. I’ll tell Dengarl that we probably won’t be seeing you for a while, and to increase security. Is that fine with you?” She procured a stone from her pocket.

A curt nod from Sint and a similar statement came forth, “Yes. Tell him that I’m going to look for the dragon. I think he’ll understand.”  
In a flash of blue light, Geneva was gone. Sint found herself alone again, almost happy for the isolation. Love’s the feeling she felt for Geneva, but there were times that love didn’t account for Sint’s needs. The isolation was a sweet, dark thing. It left her in a familiar place, alone with her thoughts and with space to think alone. She knew she had hurt Geneva’s feelings, and she knew that it was deeper than something that she’d get over in a day… But it was something that she felt was necessary for her to work. Her work was important to more than her, and if she was to stop the next calamity from arising, she had better begin working now.

She looked to the crater, pulling a notepad from her bag, tracing more than the pattern in the middle. She looked to the fallen ash, to the metal that seemed to be scattered about. The pattern itself seemed inconsequential by itself, being a set of evenly distributed and perfectly straight lines. But with the ash and scorched metal, she could better make out more than a box in a crater. It seemed to be a map, of sorts, but a fairly hard to read one. Jotting all of the details down, it did seem to be a somewhat familiar location, but where precisely was it? She chose to dwell on it later, or when her brain put two and two together. Putting the notepad in her bag, Sint looked toward the cave. Her golden eyes almost became slitted as she focused on the darkness, a mutation of her time spent combating the Void.

She ran to the cave, seeing that it ended fairly quickly due to a cave in. Crushed beneath the stones from the cave’s ceiling was an orcish skeleton, holding the arm of a man. Cursing, she knew where she was brought must have been further within. Thus, she studied the body crushed beneath the rubble, even taking the skeletal arm from the orc’s grip. Though the orc’s clothing was impossible to see, she could see a few pieces of jewelry hanging from what remained of its tusks. She took everything she saw and took a deep breath. She steadied her heart and breathing, clenching her body. Her hair began to stand up as if a strong gust had kicked up within that collapsed shaft, a low hum filling the air. Warmth was the first thing that came next, as Sint extended her hand to the orc’s skull. A golden glow wrapped around her hand now, as she sought the magics of the area to potentially perceive the orc’s dying moments. She had done this once before, with a dying compatriot on a battlefield long since obliterated. King Rid’lis of Jedden, the King of the Jed’ul, slave to the Lord. She held his head, her power flowing through her as eagerly as her anger, and she was able to see what he saw once before. A memory as vivid as her own, she saw Rid’lis lose his people to the madness of the Lord, she saw him fall to the same chaos that the Lord promised never would consume his kin. She saw something necessary, that there was hope yet for the Jed’ul, that the Lord’s death would free them from madness.

The cave darkened, falling away to black as the smell of smoke filled Sint’s nose, her eyes closed now. She chose to wait, as new sounds and sensations other than the cold stone beneath her began to fill her senses. Opening her eyes, she saw through the orc’s eyes, in the moments before he died. His panic was palpable, rushing to the back of the cave in search for something. He too found the ruined battlefield that Sint returned to, but he came for different reasons. As he scurried about, looking for something, she heard a voice rip through his mind.

“Pa’grul. Nak-kraal, dash guul caraduun Dagon.” Pa’grul’s hands began to shake more, as he soon came across the slab of stone that Sint’s unconscious body must’ve been laid on. She saw fragments of her old armor on the stone, as well as a burn-mark where her body was set. Indeed, her entire small frame was outlined in black charred rock, the heat she unleashed still clearly with her when she was dropped there. The orc clapped his hands.

“This! This, master! This is it!” He scrambled, tripping over himself, pointing to Sint’s outline. 

“KAAL.” The voice’s roar shattered poor Pa’grul’s brain, leaving the orc to screech and flee. Powerful enough to shatter a mind, the voice was also strong enough to shatter the cavern. It rumbled and shook until stones began to fall, crushing this hapless soul beneath them. Extinguished by an uncaring master.

The language spoken almost seemed orcish as Sint heard it, but unlike Pa’grul’s words, she couldn’t make out what the voice was saying. He spoke clearly, too, meaning there was something else to the word that this master used. Able to speak through minds, shatter consciousness with a single word, and bring down a cavern without even being present… Sint was right to investigate. She pulled her hand from the skull of Pa’grul, seeing that it had been shattered by the intensity of her power.

Standing, Sint turned to leave the cave, to head to the ocean. In her vision, this black mountain of terror had arisen from the sea, so perhaps she might get a sign from the sea. The waves of the sea around the Highlands were dark, as the water was cold and deep. There were days Sint wished she were a druid, so that she could transform into a seal and peruse the frigid depths of the abyss. But, alas, she was merely a warrior. Her search had taken her many places, but the sea had to be the end.

She left the sea be, casting it a wayward glance as she left. Though she felt the eyes of the colossal “Death” upon her, she knew that she had little to do about it for now. She needed to study that map, to test the jewelry of Pa’grul, and to consider the language of his disembodied master. And she had somewhat of a good idea who could help her, though this person might be hard to find now.

The Violet Panther of Suramar, Ludrasa Shieza. During the fight against the Twins trying to return their Kingly father to this world, she had a lucky break when a caravan lead by the Horde was attacked by the Unseen Army. If it were any other people, she’d never have managed to stop Vantel and Ord in time, but thankfully it was the Zandalari that spearheaded this caravan. An attack against their civilians was an attack to the Queen, so said the Prelate that lended her aid to Sint. With the Prelate came two others, independent sorts who had joined the caravan to go somewhere or for an easy paycheck. A mag’har, Ora-Ur, had joined to “search for her destiny”. Ludrasa, however, was a mercenary. A damned good mercenary with strange affinities for the forgotten and forbidden things in Azeroth. Ko’hea hired Ludrasa to help them track down the perpetrators of the caravan raid. Sint hired Ludrasa to help her track the Unseen Army and to take their technology, so that they might be better understood.

At the end of that campaign, Sint paid Ludrasa and sent her on her way. The elf had left her a few details, however, if Sint ever needed to find her again. Of course, most of it was “A big bounty” and “a fun hunt”, but the final detail was something that Sint felt like few could actually manage. “Find the Beacon of the Panther.” If she were to finish this task she had set herself upon, she needed to enter Horde territory and find this Beacon. Hopefully the Nightborne weren’t fearful of an outsider who once lent her sword to liberating them.


	2. Fallen Star

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ogres, cults, and ghosts. All in a day's work for Sint.

The revelation of a dark master sending his minions to the Highlands was a big one, however strange that might seem at first. Over a year ago, Sint and her allies came to the Highlands to stop the Black Legion for the first time, using tactics and newfound local help to crush Warlord Blackfist’s attempt at conquest. One of these locals was Kings Og’ma of what was once Glopgut’s Hollow, now named Banehollow. A nameless ogre people now were known as the Foebane, named as they were the bane of their greatest foes, the Old Gods. The Kings agreed to a deal with the Alliance, allying his ogres and ettin with the armies of the Alliance as long as he was able to maintain authority of what was once Twilight territory. Og’ma is an intelligent two-headed ogre sorcerer-king, almost emulating Imperator Mar’gok. What Og’ma had that Mar’gok didn’t, however, was empathy. The Ogre Kings hated what his people allowed the Twilights to do, especially hating that Cho’gall lead the Twilight’s Hammer. Seeking to undo the terrible evils their kin had wrought, Og’ma began to help mend the land. His alliance with the Alliance helped greatly, their ogres now a welcome sight to the Wildhammer and few remaining Alliance keeps in the region.

So the fact that something slipped through Og’ma’s vigilance is surprising. So surprising indeed, that Sint chose to visit the Kings of the Foebane. Banehollow and the area around it lacked the dim sadness that was held once before, as green and warmth had begun to finally seep back into the land destroyed by the Twilight’s Hammer. It was no less surprising to see Wildhammer Dwarves walking amongst the half-giants than to see other peoples mingling within the markets and streets of Banehollow, both Alliance and the rare red dragon milling about. Brutal buildings had been torn down for a more civilized scheme, as Gorian pillars and statues had started to sprout up. It is as if Og’ma chose to finally reignite the spirit of the Old Ogre ways, organizing them into the civilization that they once were. Sint was smiled at by more than one ogre on her way to the cave where Og’ma’s throne was held, for they remembered her. She helped turn Banehollow into what it is now. 

One of the Cave Guardians was a face she recognized, Gumaul the Biggest. Gumaul was Og’ma’s greatest champion during the battle for the Highlands, seemingly now promoted to being a royal guard of the newly crowned Kings of the Foebane. The last they spoke, Gumaul barely spoke a word of common. So when she was met with a strong hello and a hearty laugh, Sint felt a warmth flourish inside of her. She looked to Gumaul, “Hello, the Biggest. It’s been a good while since I’ve visited.”

“Shadow of War. Visit?” Gumaul still struggled with the language, almost chewing on his words, but the ogre clearly understood the words Sint spoke. He learned common, he just needed to figure out how to speak it. A moment passed as he translated what he wanted to say into spoken word, “Ehhh, purpose of visit?”

“I have come to see the Kings. Are they present?” Sint nodded toward the cave, which was met with an affirming nod from Gumaul.

“Hm, mhm. Kings are present. Bad mood.” The ogre frowned, his single eye narrowing, “Trouble at Foebane’s borders.”

This piqued Sint’s interest, “Trouble at the borders? Where they, perchance, orcs?”

Gumaul’s frown deepened, “Sound like you have much to be saying to the King. Go in.” The ogre pointed his mighty maul towards the inside of the cavern, Sint patting him on his elbow as she passed by. Gumaul was huge, even for an ogre, so Sint hardly even reached his belt. But Og’ma, he was a true goliath. Sint believed that her brother, a seven foot man who could turn into a ten foot worgen, was massive enough. But meeting Og’ma put her brother’s height into perspective, as the ogre required acres of cloth to build even a single robe. Sitting upon a mighty carved throne, with much smaller seats fanned out around him, Og’ma spoke to himself. Having two heads must’ve made ruling far more interesting, as the King had two minds, two personalities. Og seemed to be a more thoughtful, careful mind. His mind is where the magic came from, as Ma controlled the body. Most two-headed ogres divided roles up like this, as all of them were casters of some sort. Although both heads could control the same magic, the same body, they knew better than to attempt to have both heads control both things. Due to this, the mind that controlled the body often became more militaristic, much less spiritual. In this case, it sounded as if Og and Ma were arguing whether or not they should send their army out to find the perpetrators of ‘that thing that happened at our border’.

Sint stood at the entrance to their throne room, waiting for a break in their rather heated debate. It was until Og looked over to catch his breath that the ogre Kings noticed Sint’s entrance. Ma didn’t realize it immediately, forcing Og to take control of their body for just a moment. He bopped Ma on the head, “You dolt! We have a visitor. Keep your thoughts of warfare shuttered for now!”

“Agh! I forgot you could do that, but…” Ma’s eye rolled, as he looked over to see what Og was looking at. His foul mood lightened as he saw Sint, “Lady Dagon!”

“The Shadow of War. What brings you to Banehollow, and especially to us?” Og tilted his head forward, Ma following with the rest of their mighty body.

Sint bowed to both Ogre Kings, offering up a well-carved box. It was bulky and awful for a human, perhaps, but in Og’ma’s hands it would seem to be a perfect fit. She smiled, “Although my visit is perhaps not the kindest one, I still do come bearing a gift for your highnesses.”

Ma reached for the box, holding it so Og could see the fine ornamentation. Opening it, both ogres laughed, Og speaking first, “Lady Dagon, how kind! I didn’t expect to get a new knife, especially after this fool cracked our last one picking his teeth.”

“Listen, it was a fine problem what had found itself in my maw, Og. Who knew black dragon bones were so sturdy that crunching them so finely still caused our golden tooth-pick to shatter so easily?” He scoffed, “It was of the Horde, anyhow. It was only a matter of time before I disposed of it.”

Sint laughed, “You seem to be in a better mood already, my lords. So, allow me to explain why I’ve come. I returned to the Highlands not to visit, unfortunately. If I were a less busy woman, I would’ve made this a social call and not something so… serious. I walked the forest that I destroyed when we were fighting the Black Legion.”

“We are aware of this forest. The crater you left still radiates energy, it gives me a headache everytime we visit.” Og sighed, “An echo of fire.”

“Precisely, King Og. I’ve been having… dreams. Dreams related to a vision I saw when I burned away that forest. A vision of a monstrous black shadow who denied the peace of death to the ones I destroyed, a thing that rose from the depths to invalidate everything I had done.” She paused, “This shadow sent a minion to study my echoes, a minion crushed beneath a place my life was saved in.”

Ma grunted, “You still are poor at hiding your dread, Og. Spit it out.”

“Fine. Well, we’ve been having trouble recently. Mysterious soldiers have been making messes within the Highlands, and their activity has mostly been centered around the forest. We’ve managed to scare them off each time, but they keep coming back. We were debating on whether or not sending our army out to purge this filth from our land, but…” Og grumbled, “It’s possible that they’re just the Horde.”

“I doubt this is the Horde, Og.” Ma growled, “They use magic that even the Banshee Queen might be cautious about.”

Og’s brow furrowed as he looked to Ma, “How can we be certain that Sylvanas hasn’t started to go off the deep end? Start using minions that aren’t afraid of the Foes that lie beyond?”

Sint crossed her arms, listening to the heads argue. Both Kings were correct in their concerns, but she knew better than to think so narrowly, “Might I suggest something else, Og’ma?”

“Go ahead.” Both heads reply.

Sint unfastens a necklace, pulling it from her neck and holding it out. It was one of two, being a shining silver medallion emblazoned with the sigil of the Ren’dorei. She glances to both Kings, “This medallion is imbued with finely tuned magic, meant to track specific magical signatures down. No one being’s magic is the same as any other’s, so if I am able to find a trace of their dark magica, I might be able to get a general location of where they’re at.”

“There’s a catch, isn’t there?” Ma posits this question, a frown on his face.  
“Yes. If they’re not close enough, I’ll only be able to tell you they’re not here.” She bows her head, “But I feel like that would be good news, hm?”

Og and Ma both nod, “Yes.”

“Then may you guide me to where you last smelled their dark influence, my lords?” Sint puts her necklace back on, drawing Rebellion from its sheath. Whether or not she needed her Stormsilver blade wasn’t something she was to argue about in her mind. The journey was likely to be dangerous, even if this step was not. Facing destiny with a sword in hand is the Dagon way, after all.

\---------------

Og’ma’s portal took Sint a short distance, but it left her alone to investigate. The Kings elected to stay behind and maintain the gateway just in case Sint needed to escape quickly, allowing Sint perfect operating space. Where she was dropped appeared to be an old Horde camp, set right at the jaws of the Twilight Bastion grounds. An old and battered tent lay broken on the ground, a few crates and barrels shattered due to ogre bashing. The only thing that remained intact was an outhouse, resting upon its side. Already, though, Sint felt her medallion warming up.

In the shadow of the broken Twilight Bastion, Sint chose to investigate this camp with caution, out of worry that something might come crawling from the depths of this abandoned fortress. Poking through broken boxes, Sint found little more than materials for unknown rituals and shattered glass. It was probably very likely that whoever abandoned this camp knew someone or something was coming for them, taking their essentials and leaving the rest to be obliterated. As she approached the outhouse, the medallion grew cold. It made sense, to be fair. Even that privacy shouldn’t be perverted by foul magic. No, her medallion grew hot the closer she got to the broken tent.

Though the tent itself was non-magical, what was underneath it might have been. Though at first Sint’s study of the tent found no reason for her medallion to be as hot as it was, as she moved the tent itself to the side, she found what it was reacting to. The ogres missed something when they smashed and bashed their way through. A small stone was out of place, not entirely flush with the surrounding ground. Unlike gravel or a normal stone, it earnestly appeared to be an attempt to hide something in the stone, leading Sint to pull the stone from its resting place.

A light violet glow radiated from the crack from where the stone once sat, attracting Sint’s attention. The stone itself was nothing outstanding, but what lay beneath was extraordinary. At first glance most would think the crystal nothing amazing, something likely worthy to just purify and leave be. But as one should realize, their eye has been caught by the crystal. Something pulls attention towards its core, as discordant chimes play within the back of your mind. As you look, the shadows are not cast by the crystal, but by the power that lay within it. A melody of beauty turned chaotic, of the death of the light. A fragment of a Dark Naaru, in Sint’s hands.

And it was just… left behind? 

Sint shuffled through the crates, finding a good amount of runecloth to wrap the shard in. Something so exceedingly rare and dangerous should be kept in safe keeping, forcing her to ask herself a question. Did she trust Og’ma with such an item? She didn’t trust herself with it, to be fully honest, so she didn’t quite believe an ogre should have it. Taking a glance at the portal left for her, she still knew she had to return. So for the moment, she did her best to mask the Shard’s power. Taking her medallion from her neck and taking a few deep breaths, Sint took the heated medallion in hand, feeling that extreme warmth fill her body. It was painful, this process, but the pain made it extra accurate. 

Though distance dulled the medallion’s effects, Sint could easily tell the direction she needed to head. The white hot pain already dulling in her hand, she knew that her next step was to head to the next Echo of Fire. To the West she needed to sail, to the land of eternal starlight, to Kalimdor. However strange, the echoes she must’ve left in the Eastern Kingdoms seemed to have been left alone by this dark presence. For a moment Sint dwelled on why they’d abandon a shard of such potency, wondering why they even had it in the first place. Which Naaru did they gather this from? And how could nobody sense that it had come to Azeroth?

She came to find an answer, only to leave with more questions than answers. Passing through the gateway back to Banehollow, she knew the ogre kings were curious on what she had found. Og’ma looked eager to hear what she had to say, so she chose to speak of her findings before they had the chance to ask. Sint’s concern was heavy in her tone, “Though I am glad to tell you that these perpetrators are no longer within the East, they seem to be a far more dangerous adversary than I expected.”

“You carry the stench of the Old Ones, Lady Dagon. Was the magic truly that potent?” Og grimaced, bringing a hand to his chin. Scratching at his mighty beard, the ogre hummed. 

Ma pointed to Sint, “Well, you’ve solved our problem. As concerning as it is that they escaped our notice until it was too late, they have left. If not for our need to continue to build up our territory, I’m certain I could convince my better half to agree to supporting your cause. Instead, Lady Dagon, take our trust with you.”

Og nodded, still rather unhappy with the results, “Alas, that is all we can provide for now. On your next visit, we will be able to reward you in thanks. Take care on your mission… and… uh. Find a way to get rid of that stench. Others who are not so inclined to trusting you may take the feeling the wrong way, Lady Dagon.”

“I understand. My voyage will likely be enough to cleanse myself of such corruption.” Sint pauses, “But your word is enough, my lords. To see you building a society unmarred by the Fourth War’s destruction is… almost beautiful. Not all lands have been crushed by this useless conflict.”

“Your voyage?” Og’s voice is curious, not laden with typical suspicion.

A silver glow gives Og his response, as Sint lifts the medallion once again. She points to the West, “My foe tarries not within land I can easily reach. To the West they have gone, to Kalimdor. If they had stopped within the isles near the Maelstrom, to Pandaria, to Northrend… This medallion could’ve told me. Luckily, it urges me so far West that I may as well travel to the other end of the world.” She looks down, to her feet, “A trip to the edge of Azeroth, a trip I must make alone.”

“Alone? You have your Blades, do you not?” Ma grunts, “As a fellow commander, I’d say bringing a few of those stubborn lunatics with you might be a wise course of action.”

“This isn’t about military action, not yet. My journey must be taken alone, for now. The paths I must walk must be tread by me and me alone, for they are paths only I can take.” Sint sheathes Rebellion, “This is a journey not meant for a weapon, tis meant for the blade’s master.”

“I see what you mean.” Ma leaned back, “A shame none can go, however. A journey traveled alone tends to be the most difficult one of all.”

Og’ma bowed their heads, “Save travels.”

Sint bowed to the Ogre Kings, “Thank you for your hospitality. I am off.” Sint spun on her heel, exiting the Kings’ hovel. Passing Gumaul, she patted him once more on the elbow, eliciting a grunt from the large ogre. To the path she walked, seeing different smiles and different faces as she walked past. They knew that she had solved their troubles, but they also knew that she had her own weight to carry. The Foebane and those who dwelled in Banehollow thanked her for what she had done, but secretly prayed for her safety.

Out of Banehollow she went, the shard in her pocket almost forgotten as the weight she bore started to manifest itself. What awaited her in the West? What thing had come to undo her achievements, to undo the tenuous peace granted at the close of the Fourth War? She sighed, putting these things to the back of her mind. First, Sint needed to get to the West, then she could concern herself on these questions. Not too far from Banehollow was an Alliance base, Victor’s Point. Once used to fight back the Twilight’s Hammer in their prime, it now was a ghost of what it once was. A skeleton crew kept watch from the tower, a team of veterans who fought the Twilights and the Legion during their invasion. A team of veterans that even aided Sint when she came to face the Black Legion, just a year prior.

Luckily for Sint, even though she had been ejected from the Alliance’s military, these men were happy to see her and glad to keep her gryphon safe. Paying the watchmen as she arrived and locating her Gryphon, Roger, Sint was able to finally disembark from the Highlands. She steered her companion toward the West, but there was one stop they needed to make before Sint was to finally leave. They flew for a short time, mostly flying downwards, as they flew over dwarven marshland. The Cataclysm’s scars still were easily visible through the land as they flew, overflowing rivers and lakes yet to have been healed. The Wetlands had not been treated as kindly as many other lands wrecked by the Cataclysm, for in truth, a rare few people lived within the marsh. A border territory, the end of Khaz Modan, it was better left to frontier-folk than to fully settle. The land was tough, hard to grow crops in. The soil was weak, leading to unstable foundations for building. There was little bounty in a marsh, so when the Cataclysm came, the Wetlands was mostly left alone.

That was, except for Menethil Harbor. A port established by the Kul Tirans, it had long since been in Dwarven and Alliance hands. The ruinous extent of the Cataclysm damn near sank the Harbor, if not for the efforts of the hardy folk who called it home. Though much of Menethil was to forever be lost to the ocean, it was mostly repaired. Compared to the last time Sint saw it years ago during the days following the Cataclysm, it may as well have been a new city. The harbor was busy this morning, as many soldiers were returning from the war. To their homes in Khaz Modan or the Harbor they went, little thought given to Sint landing with her gryphon amidst the busy crowds.

The docks of the Harbor were perhaps the busy section of town, forcing Sint to dismount from her trusty companion. She pat Roger on the beak, “Dear friend, this is where we must part ways for now. Return to Dragonguard, and don’t come looking for me. My journey will take me far, and that is no distance for an elderly gryphon. Take care, and say hello to the Rock for me.” Though the gryphon protested for a moment, he understood well enough that Sint needed him to leave. Quick was Roger’s flight away from the Harbor, and quick was Sint finally fully alone in her journey. 

The Blades would not follow her. Her companions were safe in Dragonguard. Her wife and her siblings likely understood she needed to go alone, for now. They all were to wait for her return. Alone with her thoughts, Sint chartered a small yet sturdy vessel from the dockmaster, taking to the open sea with a grim path now opening in her mind. As Sint sailed from the Harbor, she finally allowed those creeping thoughts to break loose from the momentary barrier she set up. Like a black tide, as deep and wide as the sea ahead of her, these gnawing questions popped up. Why would she see the ideal of something so cold and distant, yet ever so warm and familiar? This Death she saw was close to her, but it was yet to be known to her.

It could not be Void, could it? The Lord couldn’t have had disciples, could he? Did the Lord have a master that finally succeeded at breaking into Azeroth? If so, then why didn’t anyone know of it? If a Void Lord walked Azeroth, Sint was certain someone should have already organized an army to destroy it. That, or the skies would have already grown dark, tendrils of chaos ripping through the land… Azeroth would be dead. No. Sint knew it couldn’t be Void, so what could it be?

Could it simply be a soldier she swatted aside in battle, rising in vengeance? Could it be one of her own, betraying her and purposefully drawing her closer? Nothing particularly added up, for the rest of the things she has faced had been slain at the end of her or someone else’s blade. Vantel, Blackfist, Iren, the Hanged Man… so many names of so many monsters. She’d slain them all, seen them disemboweled or decapitated by her or another’s hands. Even Blackfist had been obliterated, the Lord’s chaotic touch eradicating the orc from reality. 

“Perhaps I’ve just lost my mind, huh.” Sint spoke to the air as she guided her small ship into the open sea, “No supplies, chasing a ghost from a vision I had. All I have to guide me is a shard of a cosmic entity and my own madness.”

“If you’ve lost your mind, then I guess now wouldn’t be a good time to start talking.” Sint flinched, swinging her head side to side. Of course the vessel was empty, but was a naga trailing her? That would be absurd, she’d’ve noticed…

“Yes, you probably would have.” The same voice, strong and gruff. His voice almost seemed to carry an archaic Gilnean accent.

Another different voice appeared, much kinder yet equally as resolute. “Sven, maybe it would be good of us to introduce that concept later on.” 

“Voices in my head… It’s official.” Sint tapped the side of her head, “Completely lost it.”

“You’ve not done anything of the sort, heir. You’ve just started to let go.” Sint closed her eyes, hearing the first voice louder than ever. It was as if he was right behind her. The sudden feeling on her back warned her that perhaps he was. She opened her eyes to see that the ocean around her was glowing gold, as the sky was much darker than it was before. Whipping her head to look behind her, there were two glowing forms sitting in her boat. It took her eyes a moment to familiarize themselves with the setting, the two figures becoming more clear as she adjusted. Already in the front of the boat, Sint sat back, looking to the strangers in her vessel.

The first one was a large man with shining golden eyes, features very similar to her brother. He wore a great strong beard, held powerful muscles, and wore fairly decent plate armor. He held an axe in hand, wore a necklace of various rings. There was a weathered, albeit familiar, look in his eyes as he looked to her. Sitting next to him must’ve been the kinder voice, with burning orange eyes instead of golden ones. Dressed in ornate robes and covered in all sorts of fine jewelry, it was as if a nobleman and his guardian had sat within her boat.

There was something deeply familiar about the man, though. Beyond the familial resemblance… Sven. The other voice said Sven. Could it be?

“She can see us, Kumo. Finally could hear us… didn’t expect to be seen so soon.” Svenrir Dagon shrugged his mighty shoulders, “I didn’t figure it’d be this hard to get through to her, compared to her brother.”

“Well… To be fair, she’s more like you than any of your descendents.” Kumostraz the Red Dragon shrugged his well-ornamented shoulders, “My gift gives strength and awareness, but you Dagons tend to be so… stubborn.”

“...By the Light.” Sint looked between the two, “What is happening?”

Sven leaned forward, “Well. To be frank… You’re finally waking up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sint met these ogres a year ago in one of my old guild's event series. It was the same series that saw the creation of the forest from the last chapter, as well. You might be able to see a trend forming!


	3. Counsel of the Dead

“...Surprise! You can see ghosts!” Sven gestured broadly, an uncertain smile on his face. Already the veteran warrior could tell that his descendant wasn’t taking this as well as he hoped, her eyes were wide and a look of extreme shock crossed her features. Glancing to Kumostraz, who held a rather irritated look for him, he shrugged. The warrior sighed, “Listen, ‘Last hope of my bloodline’. There’s no better time for you to see us, so you should get used to the fact we’re gonna be here for a while.”

Kumo stood up and walked over to Sint, running his hand through her hair as he looked her in the eye. Sint could feel Kumostraz as real as any other, but he couldn’t possibly be physical. The dragon nodded to Sint, “My dear. We are bonded, you and I, through my Gift to your family. Sven sacrificed power and glory so that you could shine bright. He and I come to you now because you need our help, more than ever.”

“...Where were you on Jedden? When I lost my memory?” Sint was uncharacteristically calm in this situation, her resentment all but nonexistent. Kumo did not mistake this calmness for a lack of anger, of course. He just knew she was smart enough to not cast away her ancestors.

Kumo sat next to Sint, looking to the darkened sky. A sigh escaped him as he wondered what the best way to say what he needed to say was, a serene silence lapsing between the three as he thought. When he found his words, he looked to Svenrir. Nodding to his companion, “We simply lacked the power to see you. Only at Dengarl’s first death could we speak to him, and surely you saw his spirit when you faced against that orc in Quel’Thalas. ‘Tis the bond in our blood, our spirit, that allows us to be seen by you. Your research into Dragonfire, your search for me, that was what gave us the power to manifest.”

“Aye. Took you long enough, girl.” Kumo shot Sven a glare as he spoke, making the warrior pale a bit, “Uh… but uh… Hey. I’m sorry we couldn’t help sooner, but we’re here now. This gift, I’ve seen it grow. I’ve seen my family grow. Though the ones who wear the name are fewer in number than ever, since my time… We are potentially at our best in you and your brother. Especially you.”

“Why? What makes me so more special than my brother?” Sint shook her head, “He’s practically a King with a religion surrounding his very name. Myths are born around him, songs are sung of his heroics…” She looked to the sea, “I am but his Shadow.”

“So you are. I cannot change your mind, Shadow of War. But, what I can do, is prove my point.” Svenrir leaned back, almost seeming comfortable in his small seat, “Consider the fact your brother didn’t kill a God, stop the resurrection of a King who’d damn mankind, stop Xagroth Blackfist… You know. The things you’ve done.”

“He has a point, Sint. Your brother may have begun the war you now fight, but you are winning the war. He sits on his throne in Dragonguard while you are out here, alone, preparing to face a new evil.” Kumostraz stands, crouching somewhat so that Sint could take his hand. A kind smile crosses the drake’s face, “You are legendary, inheritor. Take my hand, and let us prepare you for the battle in the West.”

Sint took Kumo’s hand, her expression softening as she rose up. Looking between the two spirits again, she gave a solid nod. Bowing to Kumostraz, she spoke, “I have my doubts about this, but… I have my doubts of many things.”

“Aye. About your soldiers, your wife, yourself… Plenty of doubts.” Sven nodded, “You question why you chose to go alone. Question why you sent your companions away.” The warrior grunted, running his fingers through his beard, “I can’t answer those questions, but you should be confident in your choices.”

The red drake shakes his head, elven ears almost flattening in disbelief and annoyance, “Svenrir! You were far better at this with Dengarl, why can’t you do the same for her?”

“Although she’s more like me than he is, I understand his motivations better. His was a simple, easy path. Her’s is convoluted.” The warrior crosses his arms, “Anyhow, my wife always told me I was far too blunt for my own good.” He chuckles, “Called me ‘Mace’ for a reason.”

“You two are like an old married couple. Let us look past my ancestor’s missteps, Gift-Giver. I wish to know how you are to prepare me for an enemy I do not yet know.” Sint gestures to the sea, “And where this golden abyss of possibilities guides us. I know not of where I will go, or even why I am going, but this journey is mine to take.”

Svenrir grins, “That’s more like it. The less you doubt, the more we can work with.” Rising up from his seat, Sven was almost gigantic. Appearing less a man and more a half-giant, the warrior absolutely dwarfed Sint in size. Though he stood far taller than her and Kumo’s elven form, she knew just as well as he that Kumo’s true face was even more massive than the small vessel they were riding. Though he and his axe both made Sint seem even smaller than she was, this did not intimidate her. 

Sven knew this as his lifted his axe, swinging it over his shoulder. Cocking his head so that he could better see Sint, the spirit spoke, “So, Kumo gave us this gift. This gift of wrathful fire that burns within our veins. Each Dagon has possessed this rage within them since the birth of my first son, and will possess it until it is depleted. Seeing that our family’s mostly kept the rage caged up, you’ve got a lot to work with. You might as well be able to use this power, at full blast, until you die. And even then, there’d still be enough left to allow the gift to carry on.” He sighs, “ But as with all things…”

“There’s a catch.” Sint finishes his thought, leading with her own, “A catch I’ve felt. My heart is weak after each time I use too much Dragonfire. I find that it’s harder to sleep, harder to breathe, for days after I exert myself.”

“There’s a reason for that.” Kumo interjects, “And it’s a consequence I did not foresee when I gave your ancestor the gift. My soul is stronger than a human’s, it’s just the nature of my being. Dragons possess great primal power within themselves, power that has both given and taken a great deal of things. If the greatest dragons among us can sacrifice portions of their soul to create a nigh unstoppable weapon, then what of the more mundane drakes within our Flights? We can portions of ourselves to empower things, from weapons to people. But that power is always fire, it has never been anything but flame. Be it the fire of life or destruction, it is the gift our souls give.”

“Mhm, in short, he’s saying the gift sets your soul on fire.” Sven grunts, “And there’s no avoiding that.”

“There must be a way to lessen the pain I feel.” Sint put her hands on her hips, narrowing her eyes at Kumostraz, “For this pain is not something I wish to carry with me into war. If it walks with me in peace, then so be it, but it is nothing but a liability when I march. I cannot be weak.” Her words grew more resolute, “So there must be a way to master this gift.”

“You’ve seen that mastery before, even if it was but a glimpse.” Kumostraz lifted his hand, a red fire appearing from his palm. Sint moved in to observe, only to see the red flame turn a blinding white. The recognition of the flame’s color assured Kumo of his hypothesis, “Though Sven and I have not walked with you long, I knew you’ve seen this before. There’s a brilliance within the purity of strength, within the purity of the flame you hold. And it’s something I’ve only been able to hypothesize due to you.”

“There’s a reason we’ve come to you, Sint. Beyond the fact that your war isn’t finished, it’s ‘cause this old lizard never thought ‘White Dragonfire’ was possible. You’ve legit tapped into something he didn’t know his fire could do, which got his scales in a twist.” Kumo elbowed him in the gut, something Sven only laughed at in response.

“I can understand that. From one scholar to another, the knowledge we can share with each other will be enlightening.” She pauses, “But. There is a problem.”

“Enlighten us, inheritor.” Kumo smiles, gesturing for her to continue speaking.

“I didn’t bring much, beyond a few rations and enough water to last me partway through the journey. I was thinking on stopping in Kul Tiras, but... “ She glances to the ocean, “I’m uncertain if this vessel can survive the route I’ve got mapped out. You see, we have to avoid Horde waters. They’ll sink me without much thought, I’m sure. To avoid Horde waters, though, we have to avoid Zandalar. We have to make it to safe ground in Kalimdor as well.”

“There’s not much safe ground in Kalimdor, I imagine. At least on its eastern coast.” Svenrir stroked his beard, “Not unless you detour all the way to the desert, I think.” 

“I’m surprised you know that.” She hums, “You died almost three thousand years ago, after all.”

“We know as much as you and Dengarl see. And odd bits of information from the other Dagons who possessed Kumo’s gift.” He gave a heavy shrug, “Little good that information does. You lot rely too much on maps, instead of instinct.”   
  


“I concur, honestly. There’s a great deal instinct and a good sense of direction can do for you, inheritor.” Kumo pointed to Sint’s map, waving for her to hand over, “Allow me to see your map, for a moment.”

Sint pulled it from its bottle, unrolling it so Kumostraz could look. He gave it a quick rundown, “Unlike Sven, I’ve not actually been dead too long. I survived until the north went to hell, with all that Lich King nonsense. Still hard to believe that was nearly ten years ago… I’m still not over that. Wow.” He shook his head, “Nevermind that, there’s a few safe havens in Kalimdor. Things that sprouted up ever since the orcs took to burning and pillaging through a once peaceful place. Also, places that existed before the orcs did that. Be it small colonies where shipwrecked men were forced to settle, or places of rest and relaxation that nature and the elements created.”

“Strange that I’ve not heard of these havens.” Sint squinted, “I thought the first men to walk Kalimdor came during the Third War.”

“As vast as Azeroth’s seas are, mankind has walked this world far too long to only make it to Kul Tiras. Nay, men have seen the full breadth of this world, from sea to shining sea. It’s just these men are men who are easily forgotten to time, naught a word written of their stories in the history of man. Because your kings do not hear from these distant men does not mean they do not exist.” A warm laugh escaped him, “It’s funny to explain this to a citizen of an imperialist nation. You had colonies all over the seas, you Gilneans.”

“Aye. Then y’all lost the spirit of adventure, the spirit to see the world. Boxed yourselves off until you physically built a damn cage around Gilneas. Seafaring powerhouse turned laughingstock, beaten by corpses and dogs. Now Kul Tiras is its own thing, way stronger than you, and y’all still think you’ve got something to show for it.” If Sven could spit, he would’ve. His anger was reigned in as he chose to address Sint, “Gilneas isn’t lost, as much as your leaders like to say. Even if the land isn’t ours, we’re still Gilneans. We’ll never not be Gilneans. And you will approach these men as a Gilnean, as a helping hand.”

“Mm, Sven has a good point. Many of the men of these small havens have Gilneas in their blood. Even if they themselves have never seen the East, they will remember the stories of it.” Kumo points to a location on the edge of Durotar, “And I am certain the Horde has not walked all the land they say they own. Here.” Sint follows Kumo’s fingertip, “This is a hidden ocean-side entrance to a small merchant colony within a clearing. I met these men before there were orcs in the West, and they crashed in Kalimdor due to the Maelstrom’s currents knocking them off course. They sailed their rafts into this crevice, where they waited for someone to come looking for them. Nobody came, so they established something of their own operation. If you wonder where the ‘Redrust Raiders’ come from, it’s this small indent in the land.”

Sint quirked her brow, “You want me to meet pirates?”

“Should be no different than meeting with Kul Tirans, Sint.” Sven looked up to the horizon, where a few islands were already starting to peek over. He pointed his axe its way, “Hey look, we’re already almost there.”

“Wh- What!?” Sint whipped around to see the isles, as clear as day. Isles she’s seen sailing this way countless times. She looks over, “But we’ve been sailing for minutes! How could we already be this close?”

Kumostraz winks, “Because we’re dead doesn’t mean we’re powerless, Sint. The entire time you’ve seen this golden ocean, the black sky, you’ve been traveling extremely quickly through our manipulation of the spirit realm. Something you should start to be able to do for yourself, I think.”

“Could I apply that to myself?” The isles approached much faster than they should, Sint watching them incredulously as they zipped passed them, faster than any tidesage could usher a vessel forth.

“Potentially. When we get to Kalimdor and start your search for your Echoes of Fire, we should see. This journey across the sea will be short, after all, so there’s little time to particularly train you on the depths of your gift.” Kumo shrugs, “Though it’s possible we won’t need to stop in Kul Tiras, don’t you think?”

Sint, seeing as fast as they were going, rapidly approaching Tiragarde Bay, really had to question if their route was a certain one. Looking to the Gift-Giver, “No, no I don’t think we should! Chart our course directly for the Redrust Raider encampment!”

  
  
  


If only they had been quicker, the camp might’ve been saved. These Pirates were not good souls, by any means, raiding and killing as the law no longer applied to them. Fearlessly they committed crime after crime, as a livelihood. But that did not mean they should all be put to the blade. There were more than blackhearted sailors in this camp, but as they scouted through the burnt out hollow; it was certain. Even if they didn’t fight back, not a soul was spared. 

It was savage, senseless, slaughter. They didn’t burn if they didn’t need to, they didn’t loot or pillage, they simply took the route that would assure all of these people would die. The scene was horrific, but nothing was more horrific than the idea that there were no enemy casualties. At least, the enemy didn’t leave their dead behind. It felt as if they came, unstoppable by even the pirate’s most powerful magics, a wave of death. To Aranor, this was another day where another part of mankind was burned away at the stake of senseless violence. To Aranor, it was another massacre unlike any he’d seen before the end of the Fourth War.

His rangers fanned out through the wreckage, finding no signs anyone had survived. For the dead’s sake, they gathered the bodies and burned them, so that none might come back and commit more atrocities. The Stromgardian did not weep for the dead, this time. Perhaps he had grown numb to the irrational death that had fallen across the hidden societies in Kalimdor, or perhaps he simply lacked the courage to weep for them any longer. He was a coward hiding in a sheepskin cloak, letting his emotions stay far from him so that he didn’t have to bear with them.

A voice raspy with harsh emotion pipes up from behind Aranor as he looked into the pile of burning bodies, “Captain Aranor. There’s-” 

“No survivors.” Aranor finished his thought, allowing the crackle of the blazing fire to be the only sound that remained. He waved for his fellow ranger to go search another section of the wreckage, his eyes glazing over as he stared at the dead. He almost felt them calling to him, crying for his help. Help came too late, for they were chasing a ghost. Each time they even had a notion something horrible was happening, it was already finished by the time they arrived. Their scouts never found anything of this enemy, no trace of them. All they knew was that the few safe havens for men on Kalimdor were being eradicated, with no hope of stopping the perpetrators. 

At first they thought it was simply a response, as the first to start disappearing into smoke were pirates and mercenaries. As time passed, however, the horrifying truth was made realized. Civilian, merchant, and any other sort of refuge in this hostile Western land were to be eradicated without a thought. A cruel fate for those who likely didn’t choose to be in the path of this conquering shade. Aranor ran his hand down his face, turning from the blaze. If he let his resolve break now, there was truly no hope left in the West.

He walked from the central blaze back to the docks, which remained surprisingly intact. The vessels were sunk, but the docks themselves remained solid. They rode in smaller mercantile vessels, Aranor’s people did, to avoid detection. If they appeared as an orcish merchant riding down the coast of Kalimdor, none would particularly pay them any mind. Luckily, these merchant vessels held enough space to conceal most of Aranor’s scouting party. He glanced to the forlorn, distant faces of his people, nodding slowly to each and every one of them.

“Nothing to do but write the report. It’ll be simpler than last time. ‘Utter massacre. No survivors, nor a sign of the enemy’. Get to it.” He pointed to the ranger with the best handwriting among them, glad to sink back into the vessel to get the massacre out of her mind. To the rest of the rangers, Aranor sighed, “As little as I and you all will like it, we should do another sweep.”

“Captain, wait a second!” One of the rangers in the back called out.

“If you’re objecting, just get in the ship.” Aranor turned, drawing an arrow from his quiver.

“No, Captain! Look!” The other rangers turned to their comrade, who was pointing out toward the sea. An extremely quick and small vessel was rapidly approaching.

Aranor cursed in ancient Stromic, glaring at the vessel. He ran to the head of the docks, angling himself so he could get a good shot of the boat when it eventually docked. Praying underneath his breath, “If they’re back, then let’s hope we get a good fight before we all meet our ancestors. Scatter into the city in groups of two! Don’t hold back in what kind of arrows you use, but wait until my sign to start firing!” The Captain couldn’t believe how quick such a small thing was going, even with the wind at its back. It seemed to be propelled by a greyish mist. His people did as he asked, leaving him alone on the dock.

He was sure that it was not big enough to carry more than three people, but three is company enough if they’re able to manipulate magic like that. It slowed by the time it reached the entrance of the cave entrance to the bay, Aranor hardly able to make out a single figure guiding the ship in. Whoever was guiding it in, though, saw him standing there. Perhaps he got too ahead of himself, as the mystery person kept the ship out of his range. It didn’t turn away, though. It sat there, idle. Whoever was on board was making a choice. That was until he saw the vessel shake and shudder, before a burst of golden-yellow magic detonated the ship. A streak of energy carried something through the air, over Aranor’s head, landing somewhere behind him in the docks.

The vessel sank to the depths, but he was aware that this wasn’t the end of the action. He swiftly pivoted, aiming his arrow towards where he assumed the projectile went. Though his prediction was correct, he was not correct in assuming that it was a missile of sorts. A person rose out of the impact crater, holding a silver sword in hand. A person who didn’t appear very big. Aranor crossed orc out of his head, putting ‘Forsaken’ in thought instead. Aiming away from the chest, he prepared to fire into their limbs. He loosed an arrow, which the figure deftly cleaved in twain. This figure dashed forward, surrounded by an aura of fire and magic. Though not as fast as their vessel, they covered the distance much faster than Aranor expected. He predicted an attack, rolling to the side, before sprinting down the docks. 

The figure leapt over the barrels and whatnot Aranor knocked down, dodging a loosed arrow as he reached the sheer end of the dock. A bow was useless now, so he threw it down, drawing elven blades from their sheaths around his waist. He pointed one toward the figure, which he was beginning to actually make out. Though he still wasn’t sure if she was undead or not, he could see that she was assuredly strong. Her armor was black and red, a fine black cloak with crimson lining billowing from her shoulders. A silver sword of Gilnean design was held in hand, as golden smoke wrapped around it and her. Her face was obscured by a helmet that covered all but her lower face, for her eyes were burning with yellow fury. Her face was pulled into a deep frown, one clearly marked by what appeared to be righteous rage. She grabbed her sword with both hands, drawing it into an offensive stance. 

“So I see you came back to finish this colony off. I should’ve figured the Forsaken were involved. Never were good losers, you Lordaeronians.” He spat to the side, “Lucky you, you’re surrounded by twenty trained Alliance rangers. Some of the best.”

She lowered her stance, “Wait. You didn’t destroy this colony?” Her voice wasn’t hollow, like a Forsaken’s always was. There was warmth in that voice, albeit a strained warmth. 

Aranor scoffed, “Of course not! You… You did. Wait a minute. Please tell me you’re tricking me, because I was really looking forward to killing a monster today.”

Though she didn’t drop her stance, she softened a bit. The raging energy around her died down, her eyes dimming. He could see them, two very human eyes looking from underneath that black helm. He was facing a human, and a human he almost felt as if he recognized. With the energy gone, she had a remarkably familiar look to her.

“Rank and designation, ranger.” Her voice was loud, commanding.

He cracked a grin, twirling his weapons, “On what authority?”

“None. You will tell me, however, or this will get ugly.” She remained in one place as they spoke, Aranor following his ranger’s movements as they adjusted to her positioning. If anything, he was prepared to buy some time.

“Sorry, miss, but I’m afraid I don’t have to squeal anything then.” He glanced to his archers, raising his fist, “But, you’re about to go screaming to whatever hell you crawled out of!” Managing to duck out of an extremely quick swipe of her sword, Aranor watched as a volley of Alliance-proud arrows sung through the air.

He was as proud as the arrows until he watched with horror as they all were either swatted or incinerated before they hit her. Another few missed, which he felt as if he’ll have to reprimand the archers who missed when they reunite in Hell. Aranor sprinted to face the warrior while her back was turned, his first strike just barely missing a weak spot in her armor. She caught him, elbowing him off of her. An elbow that shattered his nose, sending the ranger rolling down the docks. 

As his ears rang from the sheer force of the strike, he looked up as he saw her move with blinding speed, ducking and dodging through the ruined port to avoid his archers. Aranor was honestly surprised he wasn’t dead, but he knew that the distinction probably didn’t matter. This beast of a fighter would come back and pop his head off like a cork, whether or not she did it immediately wasn’t important. Blurry vision made it hard for Aranor to particularly track her, but it seemed as if his rangers were distracting her long enough for each of them to retreat back to the ship.

Even the ranger he sent to write that tiny report came out, helping him back to his feet. The girl was a young high elf, hardly old enough to say she remembered the Scourge’s invasion of Quel’thalas. Old enough to hate the Horde, old enough to hold a bow. But young enough to make Aranor’s heart ache as he knew that even if they all stood together, it might not be certain victory to an adversary with unknown power. The Captain collected himself, walking to the edge of the docks. His rangers ran past him, towards their boat, all prepared to stand to face this foe.

She was easy to track, her golden glow hard to miss. Her blade was not stained with blood, but Aranor swore he saw a handful of broken bows when his rangers made it back. He turned, eyes wide, now realizing only he and the high elf’s weapons were intact. The warrior approached, striding through the ruined harbor. She looked like a God of War among the carnage, but Aranor knew now that she was not responsible. Nor was she a foe, hopefully.

He stuck an arm out to hold his rangers back, as he heard them brandish their steel in her direction. Sheathing his elven blades, he made a risky choice. He walked to meet the warrior midway, in a gesture of surrender. He was much taller than her, he realized, as they stood face to face. The ranger looked down, peering into the eyeslots of that black helm’s visor. That cocky grin of Aranor’s was stifled as he spoke, “So. You dismantled my twenty rangers with relative ease. And me. Thanks for the broken nose…”

“Are you going to cooperate now? I can’t get counsel from these dead, so I’m hoping to ask you what happened here.” She pointed toward the burning pile.

“The pile’s our doing, but the death… the massacre…” He shook his head, “We only arrived to see it. Chasing rumors and previous events like it, mostly.”

“There’s something killing other havens? Do you know what?” Her questions weren’t devoid of emotion. He could tell she wasn’t happy to hear this news.

“No. I’ve been kinda running off of the assumption it was part of Sylvanas’ master plan after being kicked out of her throne… but there’s no evidence it’s Horde.” He looked to his feet, “Doesn’t mean I don’t want to exact vengeance, but we still can’t act against them without proof. Not enough resources to take on the Horde, even in the frontier, just yet.”

“I’m tracking something, myself. I was hoping to find help from the men of Kalimdor, but I assume they’ll be hard to win over with all of these settlements being wiped out.” She sheathed her blade, “Perhaps we could help each other?”

“You destroy my bows and then ask me for help. You’ve got guts! I like that.” He looked to his rangers, “This one kicked your asses, and she’s offering an equal trade. We help her, she helps us.”

The high elf looked befuddled, “Captain, we don’t even know who she is! She might be a dangerous criminal, as far as we know.”

Aranor clicked his tongue, “That’s a fair point. Tell me, are you a dangerous criminal?”

“As far as I am aware, I am not.” She paused, “Promise to not try to kill me when I say my name, though. For some reason, it’s drawn up quite a bit of hostility as of late.”

“I don’t hurt a potential ally, lady.” He drops his hands to his sides, no longer in a gesture of surrender.

The name she spoke made Aranor’s jaw drop. A proud voice rallied forth, “I am Sint Dagon, and I have come chasing echoes of an old war. I need your help.”

“THE SHADOW OF WAR!?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops. Forgot to uh... upload these. Been too stuck in my head to remember!


	4. Promise of Steel

Sint stayed for the short rite held for the lost of Redrust Harbor, leaving aboard Aranor’s ship. Silence felled the words these men might have had for one another. Paragons of mankind spent little time in mirth, their company grim and their faces even moreso. What words could they spare to a newcomer, who lived her life in the East? A newcomer who had no notion of the situation of things within the West? She came promising her help if they could help her, but within the unspoken words lingering in the air; Sint already felt as if she knew they couldn’t spare a soul to help her.

Spread thin by both malignant forces and crushing despair, this team of Rangers seemed to be on their last legs. Proud men and women of the Alliance came to Kalimdor for what? Petty victories and continued awareness of the atrocities of the West? It wouldn’t take much to recognize that perhaps this company of Alliance proud warriors had been torn down to their most base and primal shapes, reformed by the constant savagery of a land untamed by elves and men. A land most chaotic, torn by both war and hatred. Fear of the other, the perfect victory of Garrosh Hellscream. Whether or not the Tyrant expected his true war to be fought after his death, Garrosh had sewn the seeds of chaos within the people he conquered. There was no trust in Kalimdor, each and every soul living their lives with a dagger pointed at another’s back, knowing full well that another Hellscream was waiting for them.

Sylvanas was proof. All of her loyalists were proof. The Kor’kron the Horde hunted down were proof. This fear coerced them into believing Teldrassil was correct, tearing down the very last bastion of hope for Kalimdor. With both the elves and Horde lost to tragedy, mania, and fear… Kalimdor was no home for any man, woman, or child. A land of the lost, a land so torn by the wretched that it may as well be hostile. A perfect land for a monster to work within the shadows, butchering their way through innocents to obtain something. 

Perhaps these seeds were scattered long before Tyrant Hellscream’s authoritarian regime, but they were not grown until he came. His was a conquest that would last much longer than a physical one, his was a conquest of ideals. The Horde was united by shared hardship, being driven to the edge of the world due to so many things. Be it by man or by another force, the Horde was driven together out of a need of a united strength. But the Horde grew fat on this ideal, spending the short time it had together creating a false idea that unity was the only way. It stood together through atrocity after atrocity, its people growing disillusioned with this ideal of united peace. Bloodied by the actions of conquerors, its people were prepared on a silver platter to burn down the world for the sake of ‘survival’.

And this conquest of ideals went further than a common grunt or even a High Warlord, it went across the sea. The consequences of Tyrant Hellscream’s conquest touched every part of the world, whether the world liked it or not. So at the end of a war caused by the late warchief’s actions, the Shadow of Conquest still loomed over the world, a foreboding menace that drove even mankind to embody division. The Alliance, always united by a common enemy, even found itself cracking underneath the weight of the shadow.

Sint shifted in her seat as she looked to the faces of the men within Aranor’s scouting party, seeing the Shadow of Conquest patterned across all of them. It was an uncomfortable feeling, looking to men who had lost hope in a united cause, only moving forward to survive. If they looked back, chose to try to strive by the ideals of the Alliance, they feared they were to lose themselves to the despair of the past. The despair of the present. Part of her wondered if Sylvanas succeeded in killing hope, or at least killing a part of hope. 

The silence was crushing, nonetheless, forcing Sint from her seat. It carried her above deck, to where Aranor hid among crates and boxes, with a ranger disguised by magic guiding the vessel. She ducked down and sat next to the Captain. He was watching the ocean, almost unaware that he was joined by another. A pained expression was the one he wore when Sint spoke, her pleasant voice doing little to comfort the things he saw. She knew fully well he was seeing the faces of the innocents he thought he failed to save, “I’d like to speak, Aranor. Could you spare me a moment?”

His sigh was not one of relief, “I’ll spare as many words as I can, Shadow of War. ‘tis the least I can do for you.” The ranger’s verdant eyes flashed with concern as they met Sint’s golden gaze, “Though whatever you might ask, I might not be able to answer. Both for my and my men’s sake, if it means anything to a fellow Commander.”

“I understand, truly I do. Having led soldiers for as much time as I have, I have begun to understand the difficulties of keeping their best interests in mind. Even to allies that I so dearly wish I could share the full truth, the truth would harm the men it is attributed to.” Sint pushed a loose strand of hair from her face, her hair made messy by the helm she wore earlier, “But, Aranor, I’d like to know about your operation. Why are you out here, and who are you exactly? It’s not every day that I see an organized team of rangers headed by a man of Stromgarde in the West.”

“It’s for good reason. There’s little good we men and women can do out here. No backing, no reinforcements. We’re all that you get in Kalimdor, the little that we are.” He grunted, “The Alliance as an entity is failing, as far as we care. We came here to help the Night Elves, even though the Alliance didn’t want us to.”

“You aren’t wanted here?” Sint frowned, “That shouldn’t be right.”

“Alas, it is. The King cares more to befriend the Horde than to help his own. I suppose that’s how it is within Stormwind, upon his gilded throne. Avarice blinds the King and his bold ideals, stopping him from doing what he promised to do by accepting the leadership of the Alliance in war.” Aranor shook his head, “I understand fearing a Fifth War, but at this point, it almost feels like he wants it to come. He lets the Horde off with a few sanctions, allowing them to breathe easily. Thrall even was welcomed back with open arms, even though the greenskin bastard is the reason we are in this situation!”

“That doesn’t tell me who you are, however. I’ve scorned the King’s wishes on several occasions to pursue the right thing, but that doesn’t tell you who I am, does it?” She hoped to push Aranor with these words, “You know of me, but not me.”

“I doubt there’s a soul within the military who hasn’t heard of your story, and trust me, I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t come here inspired somewhat by your public disagreement with the King. It takes more than courage to defy a divine authority, it takes a bit of madness.” He recognizes he did call Sint a madman, somewhat, so he does his best to fix that, “Luckily for you, I’m starting to think the definition of insanity is changing for our favor.”

She shrugs, “To be in my shoes is to imbibe on a bit of madness. I delved into the Void, alone, to chase a hostile adversary who outclassed me in every way shape and form at the time.” There was a glint of humor in those intense golden eyes, “But I managed it. I imagine you’ve been managing, just as I have.”

“The Silver Battalion is doing a little less than managing, in my opinion.” He sniffs, “We’ve been doing an organized plummet.”

“Your squad is the Silver Battalion?” Sint leans in, curious.

“No, my squad is a part of the Silver Battalion. I’m somewhat of a secondary leader to it, but we work for someone a bit bigger than me.” He releases a puff of air from his nose, “Quite a bit bigger, if I’m being honest. I’m some crappy commando from Stromgarde, she’s…”

“If I’m a betting woman, I can guess that she’s a sentinel of sorts? The little I do know of the Kaldorei, I know they love putting Silver in front of a lot of their named organizations.” Sint rubbed her nose, “Though, I guess mankind likes silver just as much as they do.”

“No, no, you’re right. Sentinel Captain Tarro Stardew, errrr… Ex-Sentinel Captain Tarro Stardew. She got together a good amount of Black Mooners and some scattered soldiers who came to help in Darkshore to keep fighting.” Aranor honestly smiled, he seemed to deeply respect this elf, “She had the mettle to defy this faulty peace. I came to Kalimdor a bit lost, fighting a one man war against the mongrels who are polluting elven lands. They think because they burned it all down and the King let them go that they can have Ashenvale?” He clapped his hands, a fierce grin on his face, “Not on my watch. I bled and struggled for my own home for long enough, so to see the Alliance give up so easily on the night elves deeply got to me. I ran as fast as I could, prepared to stall the conquest of Ashenvale as long as I could.”

“And I suppose you got in too deep?” Sint posed the question, “So deep that you garnered both the right and wrong attention?”

“Aye. Pissed off enough local warlords to have a black-ops team of Shattered Hand thrown my way. The trap I set was good, but it wasn’t good enough to get all of ‘em. Barely shot two orcs down before I had a bola wrapped around my knees, my head cracking against a boulder.” He chuckled, “But I guess my trap was exactly what Captain Stardew was huntin’ for. My trap didn’t work for me, but it did work for her. Her rangers came swingin’ out of the black reaches of Ashenvale, absolutely blindsiding them. Like, they knew I worked alone. I didn’t expect ‘em at all, myself!” He put a hand on his knee, pointing at Sint as he leaned forward, “They killed every last one of those orcs and offered me a place in the Silver Battalion.”

“An army at the edge of their world, fighting a fight given up by their superiors. I like it.” She crosses her arms, “Though, I have a single concern. You said ‘Ex-sentinel Captain.”

“Turns out the High Priestess isn’t allowed to officially kill orcs as they defile her land.” He snorts, “Little good that slap on the hand does. Even if she can’t endorse it, her people are still gonna keep fighting for home. They’ve lost just about every home they’ve got to the actions of the Horde, they aren’t gonna sit exposed because some princeling told them to stand down and kiss up.”

“It’s a promise of steel, this battalion. You push a people down long enough, they start to forget and ignore the warnings of others. They don’t particularly care, as they’ve been struck hard consistently by a black hammer on an anvil built of hate. From the forge, a silver blade is built out of the frustrations and suffering of an entire civilization. A silver blade aimed at the black heart of their attackers.” Sint draws her own sword, pointing it to Aranor so that he could see it, “A blade forged by victims so that they might never be the victim again.”

Aranor silently studied Sint’s weapon, admiring it even. He could see that it wasn’t perfect, Rebellion, but it was built out of something extremely important. Passion. It was perfect for the kind of person its wielder was, engraved with words that mattered to them. Down its length was old Gilnean script, before the language was cemented as common across all human kingdoms. Though Aranor did not know how to read Gilnean script, he knew that whatever the engraving was, it was extremely personal to Sint. He wondered if this was a “Promise of Steel”, as she mentioned.

Sint drew her sword back, laying it across her lap. The short silence was broken by her, “Seeing my sword, I feel you understand.”

“You could say that. I can’t claim to know what you mean, but the idea is something I resonate with.” The Captain strokes his beard, “I never knew Stromgarde, really. I was young when it collapsed, and the life I lived before it’s fall was spent in lands ravaged already by the Horde.” He slowly nods, “I only have known life on the frontier, fighting to build something that I believed in. I never had what you had, I can’t even fathom the idea of losing it. The idea that you still don’t have it, watching as another ruined Kingdom is favored while your land still remains in limbo. You’ve lost, just as the Elves have. For that, I feel as if you know their strife better than I do.”

Sint’s expression grows somber, her eyes downturned, “Teldrassil was our home, too. Though we lived there for such a short time, those years were good years. We helped throughout all of their lands, trying to earn a place within their home. Kalimdor was to be a Gilnean home, as Gilneas’ rise seems so ever-distant.” To the sea did Sint’s gaze go, “As deep as the ocean, as distant as the stars. Two homes lost, and nothing to show for it. We share their pain. We’ve lost everything, just as they have.”

“By the Light… I’m sorry I brought it up.” Aranor placed a hand on Sint’s shoulder.

No tears came from Sint, as it seemed to be that she had accepted this bitter fact. As hard as it was to deal with, Gilneas was just a people at this point. Their kingdom was gone, their King hardly fought with their best interests in mind. A people held together by loss, and loss alone. She looked to Aranor, shocking the man with the lack of emotion she seemed to hold for this, “Apologies are worthless, Aranor. I brought the topic up. Let us not speak on it any longer.”

“Fair enough.” He spoke, allowing a short silence to fall again. A short silence upended by a sudden burst of insight, “Though, if we are not speaking of such upsetting things, perhaps we could speak of your reason for being here. I know you’re searching for something, just as we are, but I would like to know what exactly you’re out to achieve.”

“A fair question.” Sint pursed her lips, thinking a moment. Finding a way to word it so that he might better understand, Sint spoke on the topic, “I have come in search for places I’ve been once before. For areas I have used the power I used to dismantle your squad when you attacked me.” Her tone grew stronger, “Something is hunting for those echoes. Something that I tracked to Kalimdor, but the energy dispersed before I could get a better reading on where it’s exactly sourced from.”

“Odd, though I suppose we aren’t capable of seeing everything. As much as we’ve been watching the oceans to make sure nothing was leaving the West, I can’t guarantee we saw everything.” Aranor folded his arms, his brows furrowed, “As frustrating as it is, I don’t know if our foes are the same.”

Sint procured a runecloth bundle from a hidden pocket, “Though I won’t unveil the object within, for your sake, I fear that this foe is extremely dangerous.”

“What is it?” He looks to the cloth, wishing his query to be answered. He probably hoped that the answer was not as horrific as he knew it was going to be.

“A shard of a Dark Star. A piece of a dying Naaru… Something I was hoping to get purified after using it to locate its previous owners.” Sint placed it back into its hiding place, safely in her breastplate, “They seem to no longer be manipulating the Void to find my echoes.”

“That’s… bad.” He rubbed his face, “Really bad. If they can just easily discard an object of such strength… I don’t like your foe. I’m starting to actually really wish our enemies aren’t the same.”

A voice pipes up, a voice that only Sint certainly could hear. Kumostraz’ disembodied voice rings out from within Sint’s mind, “My dear, I have been following what Ranger Captain Aranor has been saying and I do think his details are strongly correlating with what you witnessed in your vision. A black wave of death taking the spirits of people forsaken by hope. Considering that you found an orc searching for your power in the Highlands, as well, and they are taking on a shadowy adversary in the same land you traced your enemy’s power to…” Kumo paused, “Well. You can probably make that conclusion yourself.”

Sint didn’t respond to Kumostraz, but she did use the drake’s words to hopefully seal a pact between her and the Silver Battalion, “I came here due to a trail of clues I found relating to a vision. An orc found an echo of my power, I found his camp and this shard. I tracked the shard to Kalimdor, a shard belonging to this black wave of death, that took the spirits of people forsaken by hope. A shadowy army that slaughters a people abandoned by the Alliance.”

“Damnit.” Aranor grumbled, “So it really sounds like what you’re searching for is the thing we’re trying to find, ourselves.” The ranger didn’t like that, “I’ll poll my men, then. Give me a moment.”

Aranor lifted up into a crouch, making his way below deck. This left Sint, Kumostraz, and Svenrir mostly alone. The sky grew dark, but the ocean did not turn yellow this time. The forms of both Kumo and Sven slowly faded into view, as they were standing by the edge of the vessel, looking to Sint. Sven looked particularly excited.

“Good timing, you two. I have a feeling he’s going to be gone for a while.” Sint sighed, “These men have little to cling to, so I feel that Aranor is going to have to invigorate them to tackle our shared issue.”

“Hard job, inspiring boys with no spirit left in ‘em. If anything, though, I feel you’re a Lightsend for these poor soldiers.” Sven leaned against the railing, “A strong hero who’s come to fight the same enemy that they’re struggling to even find.”

Kumo nodded, “As much as Aranor will need to do to get them back into fighting spirit, I have no doubt that you’ve given these people a twinge of hope. Instead of two evil enemies, it is one, and they know you will stay to fight it.”

Sven rolled one of his great big shoulders, “Though, it isn’t the best start. This army isn’t strong yet, and really I think you’ve only got one reliable ally currently. Aranor’s good. He’s got his head on his shoulders, and I don’t think he’s quite given up as hard as his boys below have. Even if they agree to help, methinks it’ll just be Aranor and you working for a bit.”

The drake patted Sven on the shoulder, “For once, he speaks wisdom. Though your strength has been proven to these people, they have little reason to hope. Even if they are convinced to aid you, there is little doubt that they will not send more than one man to help.” Kumostraz doesn’t speak of this as a bad thing, however, as he continues to talk, “This is for the better. What you are about to do is not a duty that can easily be done by a team of dejected fighters. Aranor is exactly what you need.”

“Aye. If you can, you should convince them to give the Ranger Captain to you.” Sven looked down at Sint, “Anything else, really, isn’t important right now.”

“He is prepared for the path ahead.” Kumostraz says, “But we have a question for you, Sint.”

They speak at the same time, their forms almost seeming to meld together in Sint’s vision, “Are you?” 

As their word fades, Aranor walks through their combined form, the sky returning to normal. He has a mixed expression, “They’ve agreed that we should help you.”

“But they don’t want to help me.” Sint says, “Their fighting spirit is depleted, they need more than inspiring words to get thrust back into action.”

“How’d you figure that?” Aranor shakes his head, “Intuition, I guess. But yeah, you hit the nail right on the head. They know we should help, but they just don’t have it in ‘em to do it. So, they’ve agreed that once we hit the coast of Azshara... “   
  
“You’ll be coming with me.” Sint interjects.

“Damn good guess. Damn right guess, at that.” He chuckles, “Maybe this isn’t as bad of an idea as I first thought! I’m goin’ with you to where you need to go, because I honestly believe that if we find anything, AND I MEAN ANYTHING, it’ll be our first actual hint to finding the perpetrators of all this bloodshed in our outer havens.” Aranor procured a map from the pack he carried, “So, I want you to point out where we need to go.”

He laid it out in front of her, giving her a moment to think of where she should go. The powers of Kumostraz and Svenrir appeared slowly, as the two spirits seemed to be locating each area where they felt an echo of Dragonfire from. The first one they spotted was in Ahn’Qiraj, an idea Sint already crossed out in her mind. She doubted it was in her best interests to search Ahn’Qiraj during this period of instability, with an Old God on the loose and all. The second and third appeared in Feralas and Desolace, which Sint figured might be too far away to be effective. Then there was one in Azshara, which Sint almost felt would be the best idea.

That was until the one in Felwood was labeled, both spirits seeming to emphasize it. There was likely a reason for that, the reason being that it was the biggest ever eruption of Dragonfire. Sure Sint’s outburst when she achieved the white version of Dragonfire was immense, but it was nothing to the scale of her brother’s sacrifice. He survived the Legion, faced a Titan and survived to tell the tale, but when he came against the Horde… He perished. It was a sacrifice to save the refugees fleeing from the carnage in Darkshore, refugees being hunted by a massive Horde force that swelled in Felwood. A force that Saurfang used to finish the War of Thorns, the force that directly caused the Burning of Teldrassil. With a single fist, Dengarl cracked open the earth and split the heavens, raining fire and destruction down across an immense Horde army. The force was so tremendous that it instantly vaporized Dengarl, creating a new valley in the mountains. 

Such an Echo would be hard to find just out of the geography of the land and the presence of the Army of the Black Moon, but… It should be the most powerful Echo of Fire. She pointed to Felwood, to the mountains, and looked to Aranor. She saw the shock in the ranger’s eyes. “The mountains…” He thought for just a moment, “That was where Saurfang’s army finished the War of Thorns. That’s… Where Marshal Dagon died.”

“You must take me there, Captain.” Sint didn’t beg him, her words a command.

“Yes ma’am.” A good soldier listens to this command. This soldier knew better than to disobey the Shadow of War, especially after promising himself to her. An order well received. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sint has a funny history with weapons. Just know that the text on Rebellion simply states, "Never again".


	5. The Fangs of Chaos

The mountains between Felwood and the rest of the world were often referred to as the “Gortoth” by local orcish forces, as it was well known to the many who lived nearby that though Felwood itself is on its way to recovery, the mountains surrounding it may never see that luck. The corruption of the wood may have started within the forest, but the fel crept its way through the land until the very magical essence of the land forced it to stop. The taint of chaos seeping into the very earth, it has continued to send its tendrils downward, causing a lasting chaos that might never see its end. In orcish, Gortoth stands for “Fangs of Chaos”, for the mountains around Felwood will always seem to be the fangs of an accursed beast, locking Ashenvale within its maw.

It was in the grip of these fangs that Dengarl Dagon sacrificed himself, a pillar of mourning flame rendering a tremendous army to ash. With a fist, a chasm was opened beneath an army, both the fire of Dragons and the embrace of the earth claiming thousands of lives. It still wasn’t enough. The armies of chaos still managed to traverse the mountains, crushing a symbol of life beneath the boot of death. The thought still rattled Sint, the battle being one she so dearly wished she could have been there for. Maybe she could’ve been enough to turn the tides, enough to mean so many didn’t have to die.

Trekking through the mountains and hidden pathways of Kalimdor was a long endeavor, one spent mostly in silence between Sint and Aranor. When they landed in Azshara, he sent his soldiers to return to Darkshore to join back up with the rest of the Silver Battalion, a route that he and Sint were to entirely diverge from. She knew that the Captain worried for his soldiers, fearing that they might face untold danger that he now couldn’t guide them through. Without his leadership, he feared that he had doomed his squadron. It was a fear that Sint knew well enough, a fear she’d had to rationalize much through her commanding years. 

There was much that a leader had to embody, much that a leader had to do. They were responsible for the direction and the morale of their men, so much so that often the death of a leader meant the end of an entire cause. But as much weight as there was on a leader’s shoulders, they solely were not responsible for heading a cause. To their secondaries, to their very lowest ranking man, all were somewhat responsible for keeping a leader’s dream alive. Each man contributes, not a soul is allowed to let others bear his weight. It was a hard lesson, that one. The lesson that every leader should plan for their death, as their lives were in more danger than any single member of their troop, even their most reckless berserker had a greater chance of living to old age than a commander in the line of fire.

It was a lesson that required a warrior to face his ego, to check it and make certain that it did not blind him. A lesson that required one to humble himself in the face of mortal danger, to make all understand the responsibility of war. To each man who raised a sword, be it a blade of steel or of ideals, they all must understand the cost. An idea must never live in the shadow of a leader, nor should it ever be tied to a single man’s life. For an ideal is much more important than one man, no matter who the man was. 

To Sint, it was a sobering reality. Long had she relied too much on herself, forcing herself to grow while leaving the rest to stagnate. She wished she had learned this reality long before her journey to the West, to find a shadowy monster from her dreams. If she had, perhaps she’d have no need to recruit Aranor’s people. The Blades of Dagon might walk alongside her. It was her fault that they didn’t, that they almost seem to cower in her presence. Many had begun to build a cult-like devotion to her name, her blood. It infuriated her to no end. So what if she had done so many things? So what if she had defied the divine and the unholy to see her duty through? She was but a human, a young woman lost in a path defined by dark tides and uncertainty.

The waves of an uncertain future crashed against her psyche, forcing Sint to confront her thoughts as she guided Aranor to the Echo of Fire. She dearly wished for Geneva’s presence, missing the joy that they earned together. It was Geneva who was best at dispelling the demons that marched in Sint’s shadow, for it was her touch and her nature that best comforted Sint in her darkest moments. To Sint, Gene was one of the rare lights in her life; a living sanctuary to protect her from herself. Alas, she was stuck facing this darkness alone. There was no hope in seeking Aranor’s aid, for the man was living in a similar shadow. He also probably didn’t know how to help Sint, even if he wasn’t in the same situation.

The pair entered Felwood only days after arriving in Kalimdor, due to Sint knowing the route her brother took to cut off the Horde before they reached Darkshore. Passing over a river brightened by natural magics, Sint could see the path they needed to take to the ravine where the echo surely was. Stopping for a moment, she glanced to her companion, seeing that he was prepared to continue the climb. He did not protest the momentary rest, however; Aranor using the moment to speak to her. 

His voice was less negative, his tone made much brighter since the last they spoke. Perhaps the trip had been ample time for Aranor to get his emotions back in line, or it had been time enough for him to at least regroup his thoughts. Collected, he spoke, “Commander, do you expect any action in the mountains? Though I’ve heard the orcs speak in mild fear when referring to this ‘Gortoth’ range, I’ve yet to hear any story speaking of the dangers that lie within it. All of it has been vague references to potential demons or bandits.”

Sint drew Rebellion from its sheath, “I expect trouble, be it by demonic or our mystery enemy’s hands. If they’re good enough to completely avoid you for this long, I’m almost absolutely certain they’ve got a notion that I’m coming for them.” She plants her foot on a roughly hewn step, “But when, that isn’t known. If I had this many crushing victories under my belt, I’d be cocky enough to bet that we’d be coming with the main Battalion, instead of coming in a small group at least a day ahead of them.”

“You think they’re tracking my squadron?” He drew his daggers, frowning, “I’m not sure. If they can find your power, what stops them from tracking you?”

“Do you think I’d let anyone trace me? There’s a reason they know me as the ‘Shadow of War’. They don’t ever see me coming.” Sint says this with a bit of humor in her voice, showing Aranor that she’s not entirely a monolith of severe seriousness. With a smirk, she speaks further, “Don’t worry, Aranor. I’ve been tracked once through my power, and it’s not something I particularly want to happen again. My medallion here has two purposes, one to find magic, and another to obscure it.” Sint tapped the silver object, dangling across her breastplate.

“Such an interesting trinket, your medallion. Where’d you get it from?” He leans in to inspect it, “If you don’t mind my asking, of course.”

“I have friends in the right places. Turns out that befriending void elves is a worthwhile effort.” She grips the medallion, “And that effort is still favorable. The medallion, it grows warm with the stench of foul magic. Though it is not the same magic as the shard, it is enough to tell me that it isn’t the fel around us.”

“Let’s get a move on, then! I’m not letting these bastards get away, this time.” Aranor twirls his blades, “Just up these stairs, up the slope?” 

“Right.” Sint nods, “Let us face these fiends, at last.” She was the first to head up the steps, her heavy armor hardly holding her back. Years of training and the power of Dragonfire made even the heaviest implements in her arsenal easy to carry, allowing her to outpace even the lightly dressed ranger. Though she already obscured her magical signature with the Medallion of Telogrus, she did not want to chance the enemy even slightly detecting her. She refused Dragonfire’s quickness, using her own strength to climb the mountain. The peak gave them a vantage point to see the battlefield, and the chasm her brother wrought from the earth.

Known as ‘Giant’s Landing’ by the survivors of that battle, it was left well alone by those who didn’t wish to draw the ire of whatever caused the ravine to be created. Unbeknownst to most, of course, Dengarl was the one who created it. So it was practically superstition and a lack of just cause that made the battlefield untouched, until now. Sint and Aranor stood atop the peak of one of the Gortoth mountains, staring down at an encampment of black-clad soldiers. Sint could make out the forms of Forsaken, Orcs, and even the odd man or monster. Their camp surrounded the chasm, which still burned with raging flame. Strange stones hung over the pit, suspended by unknown magic, covered in near-orcish script.

Aranor cursed, “The hell is going on down there? You got any idea?”

“I know they’re trying to collect the motes of power left behind by myself and my brother, so perhaps they’re attempting to harness the destruction that still burns in the Landing? I’ll need a closer look.” Sint makes to head down the slope, only stopped by Aranor’s outstretched arm.

“Are you mad, Commander? Heading down there would be suicide, and you know it.” He shook his head, “At least I could sneak in. You? You’ve got that great big armor and big shinin’ sword! You’d be seen the moment you stepped one foot near that camp.”

“If you’re scared, Ranger, just watch me work.”

\----

“...War Camp Toth’ag is one of many, Overseer.” A spectral voice shimmered through the evening air, silky smooth yet chilled to the core, “Even if your operation fails, another can take its place. Prove your worth by the Dawning Hour, and perhaps the Dark Lord shall forgive your stumbling. For now, take the small mercy that I am leaving your presence.”

Its clawed hand was held around the orc’s throat, as he whimpered like an abused dog when the being glared intently into his very soul. Its grip tightened for a moment, reveling in the noise that it forced from the Overseer. Eventually he was let free, a shadowy handprint now marked around his neck. Wherever the thing went, Thuller wasn’t about to go looking. Ever since his people got the order to camp around these lands, more and more oddities began to appear within their ranks. 

For one, Thuller was placed as ‘Overseer’. His people never used such a rank, and no sort of thing existed within the Horde military. As time passed, Thuller recognized that what was happening no longer answered to the Horde. His original master was dead, now they were headed by a ‘Dark Lord’ he’d never seen. There were ghosts ordering his peers about, ghosts that were unstoppable by their hands. Previous Generals were now Overlords, squatting in derelict and abandoned keeps across war-ravaged lands.

And among the ghosts and lost territory, were other horrors of the past. Thuller may have been a criminal, a Kor’kron Sergeant who got overzealous in his punishment of the Trolls, but his skin still crawled when he looked at the army’s more fresh recruits. Just a month prior, the Black Empire had been defeated, N’zoth killed by the Champions of Azeroth. At the end of that month, the Black Empire came to them. N’raqi and Aqir, K’thir and the corrupted… they walked within the same army as him. And he lead a great deal of them. They listened to him.

Perhaps he was the owner of a cursed blade, a fearsome orcish juggernaut who carved a name out in the underworld over the time since Garrosh went missing… But he didn’t feel like he was really in control. He’d locked eyes with cursed dragons and undead abominations, things he had nightmares of when he was just a pup. Things that bowed their heads in respect to him, now.

“Overseer. The Wraith has left a mark this time.” A sultry, twisted voice piped up over Thuller’s thoughts.

“Vega. Things aren’t lookin’ good.” Thuller spat through gritted fangs, turning to face this ‘Vega’. Vega was one of the few horrors that he knew, one of the few he spoke to regularly. An ethereal twisted by the Void, he was a servant of the Viceroy Nezhar on Argus. When the Viceroy was butchered at the Seat of the Triumvirate, Vega chose to take what he could and flee Argus. Luckily, apparently he heard the echoes of N’zoth even so deep in the Great Dark, making a journey all the way here.

“Dear Overseer, I doubt things are so dire as you make them out to be.” The ethereal hovered to Thuller’s side, pointing his bandaged head to the orc. Although ethereals had no eyes, Thuller felt his gaze present. Looking between wrappings, he could see the ethereal’s true form hidden beneath. An abyss of magic and sentience was beneath the physical form he took, placing a deep sense of uncertainty within Thuller. It was another horror taking the form of a mortal, of dubious thought and mind. Vega seemed to read the Overseer’s mind, “Though you doubt your new allies, we have begun to make great strides with our research over Giant’s Landing.”

“Right.” Thuller spat that word out, “So you have.”

“Don’t take the wraith’s words so hard, Overseer.” Thuller could make out a gleam of light behind the ethereal’s violet tinged wrappings, almost a sign that Vega was laughing at him. Vega placed his bejeweled hand on Thuller’s shoulder, “They do this to inspire loyalty in you. I doubt they’d so eagerly eradicate such a valued soldier.”

“They eagerly ignore this ‘valued soldier’s’ complaints. Don’t seem far-fetched they’d toss me into a ditch without a second thought.” He drew his accursed longsword, treading lightly toward the edge of the cliff he and Vega stood upon. Overlooking the Landing, Thuller’s small eyes grew even more narrow as he watched his people act as if nothing had changed. A loud growl is what he had in response to such lax behavior, “It’s as if they don’t care that I’m on the chopping block, Vega!”

“If it means anything to you, Overseer, I’d quite dislike seeing your head on a pike.” The ethereal paced behind Thuller, clicking his gilded fingers together. Never did Thuller see such an extravagant ethereal, not on the level of Vega. The orc did figure that the name often followed by ‘Prince Netherglitz’ or ‘Lord Sparkle and Shine’ should be just as shiny as his reputation, but to the scale of Vega… It was almost obscene to him. Perhaps it was astounding to wonder how Vega managed to keep himself together with all the metallic weight that covered his bandage-built body, or perhaps Thuller wanted to know how an exile of exiles managed to gather so much overt wealth.

It made Thuller wish that he had gone in search of riches, instead of high ideals. He rubbed his scruffy brick of a chin, “Nevermind that. Why are you even here, advisor?”

“Well. I wanted to give you some advice dealing with our defenses.” Vega stopped pacing, drawing his feet together. Standing with a bit of swagger, still, the ethereal did his best to appear as if he were giving a report, “Our Eye picked up some new activity in Ashenvale.”

Thuller snarled, “Horde?” 

“No.” Vega spoke, “Something else.”

“SPEAK IT. What did we see?!” He whipped around, frothing in rage.

“While I cannot say they are Alliance, it was a coalition of Alliance races. The same one that the Dark Lord’s agents have reported on before, it seems.” Vega pointed to the valley entrance to Giant’s Landing, “Their trajectory implies that they’re heading to us.”

“How many? When?” Thuller grinned, “This might be our chance to redeem ourselves, Vega. It’s KEY you tell me.”

“Well, their force is comparable to an elite sentinel taskforce. They are not elite sentinels.” The ethereal buzzed with energy for a moment, “But. To avoid you getting your hopes too high, they were joined by a strange figure. She walked as a giant among the small, her energy hard to understand. She carried an odd glow within her, and was the only very well-armored member of their group.”

Thuller’s expression began to fade, his grin turning into an expression of fear, “Did they see anything else?”

“Why?” Vega made a sound akin to snorting, “ It’s not as if she appeared too mighty, she was but a small warrior in black plate. She looked a child, puffing her chest out in an attempt to look imposing.” The ethereal shrugged, “I doubt she’s much to worry about.”

“Vega, you IDIOT. Rally the defenses, NOW!” Thuller rushed down the cliff, sprinting as fast as he could to the center of his camp. His people and the recruits his new Dark Lord had brought in watched incredulously as they saw their leader in such a panic. The center of the War Camp carried a massive horn that if blown a certain way, he’d gather his soldiers in preparation for battle. It was atop a small tower, built in the shadow of a much larger tower where he tended to spend much of his time. The ‘Eye’ Vega spoke of rested atop the tower, a magical artifact that Thuller’s people could use to do advanced recon over the area. It was said that the Dark Lord could see through the artifact, as well, leaving Thuller to leave the scouting to others. He’d rather not have a mysterious mastermind probing his thoughts, seeing what he could see.

The rickety tower hardly bore his weight as he scaled its ladder, finally reaching the horn with a huff and a puff. He blew a long and mourning note from it, its low thrum penetrating the air. Carried far and wide, he could already see his forces rallying to his position. The people Thuller knew very well were the first to respond, followed soon by Vega’s cohorts, and then the rest of the oddities and abominations came afterward. Much to his dismay, several refused the call, continuing to work on whatever odd project they had been assigned to. With no time to waste, he didn’t choose to call again. With a panicked pace, Thuller yelled out, “The Eye has seen an incoming war! A party of few, at first, they seem to be little threat to our dark might! But when I was told of those among the company, that is when I learned the truth! Our Greatest Adversary comes! I did not expect her so soon, but it seems the Shadow of War has fallen over our operation.”

A gasp resounded among those who knew the name, who remembered the one who carried it.

“I know some of you don’t know this name. I’m pretty certain many of you don’t care that I’m terrified by it. Be scared. This warrior has crushed things far stronger than us, and the fact that she’s still able to march is a testament to her willpower. Do any of you remember the Lord? Do any of you remember the Unseen Army?” Thuller saw many nod, those that head notable heads at least. He pointed to the valley pass, “She killed the Lord. She broke the Army. And she killed my master, Blackfist. She eradicated the Black Legion!”

Thuller could see that his words were now reaching the few who didn’t care for his original call for attention, “She walks with the master’s enemy, and she’s coming.” The Black Legion had been brought back together by an unknown power, still acting with an authority imposed by the last Warchief of the Horde. Bound together by service and the ruinous powers they had dedicated themselves to, they came to this land in search of power and to build the Black Legion into a force to be feared by both the traitorous Horde and the distant Alliance. But what they needed to do to get there was veiled by their Dark Lord’s refusal to make himself known, his refusal to share his plans with his armies. All he had them do is do tasks, in disparate groups too distant to share glory with. It was much too soon for Sint Dagon to be here.

An eruption of magic derailed Thuller’s train of thought, as pieces of masonry and rubble fell around him. A large enough chunk of stone broke a leg of the tower he stood on, forcing him to leap from it. Landing hard, he felt the weight of his armor nearly break his knees. Looking back to see what happened, Thuller’s flew open wide at what he saw. The great tower where the Dark Lord’s Eye sat had been blown in half, golden flame marking where most of it once was. Standing among the flames was a figure, triumphant. Holding a spectral banner in one hand and a shining silver blade in the other, they looked down upon the Black Legion. 

“I’m already here.” A strong woman’s voice swirled from within the fire and dust, her word almost seeming to blow these things away. In seconds, where an obscuring cloud stood, was a bonfire of shining gilded fire and an avatar of war. The fire billowed around her, threatening the darkness that had settled so easily in the War Camp. Thuller could hardly look at her, the bright light hurting his eyes.

When the fire died down enough for him to maintain vision on her, he felt his heart sink. In black and red, an angel of death and fire had fallen from the heavens at his doorstep. With no answer for this threat of conflict, Thuller could only look in fear as he made out the face of the offender. She was as terrifying as the stories made her out to be, a giant among men. Even if she was simply human, her humanity was a thought far at the back of the Overseer’s mind. She planted her spectral banner, a banner bearing the symbol of a dragon’s skull pierced by a greatsword, squarely into the ruins of the tower. Lifting her sword to the crowd, “I challenge your leader to single combat.”

“Why should we answer this request?” Vega was the first to speak out, “You are but one human alone against the might of the Dark Lord of Gothgor!”

“I may be one, but I am never alone.” She leveled her blade towards Vega, “If you do not answer my request, then perhaps I shall face you all.”

Thuller knew the threat was not an idle one, but the dark masses around him didn’t seem to fear the threat of facing such a warrior. Perhaps he had grown paranoid from the stories he had heard, but he didn’t wish to face Sint Dagon in battle.

There were worse fates, he was sure, but he’d rather survive the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very good at making up fake fantasy words. At least, I think so!
> 
> Here's your villains, folks. Whats exactly their deal? Iunno. Read!


	6. Demonstration

Sint’s heart was pounding. She could hear the blood rushing in her ears, her adrenaline spiking. Her breath grew heavy as she stood atop that tower, looking to the amassed forces of darkness. This rush wasn’t out of fear; no, Sint felt exhilarated. For some reason, as she stood above an army that would’ve frightened any reasonable human, she couldn’t feel the connection. Flame whirled around her, her stance strong and her heart even stronger. Aranor attempted to reason with her, to stop her, but she decided what she had to do. No man, no monster, no god could tell her otherwise.

Darkness writhed around her, in throngs about a dark tower she obliterated. She was a colossus among the many. And she did not fear. Grip tightening around her spectral banner, she looked to them as they clamored for her. She spoke, her word boosted by the same spiritual strength that conjured both banner and flame around her, “I have offered you mercy! Give me your leader, and you may be spared! If in battle your master cannot slay me, then you shall retreat to whatever pit you surged from. If, however, I die… then you get what you want.”

“It is not an offer I make lightly. If in the next few moments I do not see your leader, I shall rain fire and death upon everything you know. I shall torch the evil from this land.” There was a candor in Sint’s voice that told this new Black Legion that she was not bluffing. In their hearts, they knew that she was going to leap from that tower. What they did not know is the outcome of this play. Some assumed she’d be devoured by chaos, but the wiser soldiers started to murmur their assumptions. If she could so easily stand before them, unbent and untouched by darkness and fear, then perhaps there was merit in her threat.

And to Overseer Thuller, he felt her threat was very real. He had seen what Sint could do. So, he began to retreat through the crowd, almost becoming invisible. That was until he was pushed. More and more hands started to push Thuller forward, until he found himself back where he started, this time with a wide berth formed around him. Thuller turned to snarl at his soldiers, “The Hell are you doing?!” His snarl was short lived, dying in his throat. Hesitant, he slowly turned his head to see that she was looking right at him.

“This is your leader?” She canted her head, leveling her sword to his position. Thuller held his own blade up, matching her glare. 

“I am Overseer Thuller of War Camp Toth’ag! The Dark Lord has given me oversight of this land and these warriors. It seems they have thrown me to the dogs! If it makes them feel better, after I’m done peeling your flesh from your bones, I’ll see to it that they’re next!” He spat to the side, “But, you! I knew you’d be here, Lord-Commander. It’s no marvel to me that you’d come to finish your war, but where are your soldiers? I expected the Blades of Dagon, not some motley crew of rag-tag rogue rangers!”

Her answer was the banner she held being thrust into the ground in front of him, a massive burst of energy knocking him from his feet. Flung backwards by the tremendous force released from her toss, Thuller almost lost his nerve as he tried to get back up. But he was an orc! He was a loyal warrior of Hellscream’s legacy! If he was to fall this day, he was not going to die like a human babe. No! He was going to die in a blaze of glory, so that his true master could greet him with pride in the afterlife. If he was to die, Sint Dagon and the entire war camp was going with him! As he felt another tremor run through the ground, he leapt to his feet to see Sint Dagon standing before him. In one hand she held that banner, in the other she held that gleaming silver blade. With a tremendous roar, Thuller cleared more space for the battle to commence. He felt the eyes of thousands on him, wondering how he’d stand up to her. He spun on his heel, fleeing in the other direction. 

This was to the shock of the others, who roared out that he was a coward for not honoring the duel. But he knew that those not blinded by honor or glory saw that Thuller was making the best of his situation. He was not going to tempt fate and take Sint on in a duel. The outcomes for that were much too hard to plan, and most of them were things Thuller was trying to avoid. As he ran from Sint, he wounded many of his own, his accursed blade spreading his will through them. When he fled from the ground, he had a small force to position counter to Sint’s pursuit. He had a plan, but he needed time. He sprinted past the ruined tower, fleeing towards the ravine where the Mad Dragonslayer’s Echo emanated from. Accursed minions were placed in key spots as he ran, but never did he look back to see if Sint had chosen to follow.

Indeed she had, but there were more than his own accursed minions standing in her way. Thuller stopped for a moment to catch his breath and spotted what was taking Sint so long to run him down. It was Vega and his people firing as much void magic as they had toward Sint. Almost heartwarming, Thuller gave a quick salute off in Vega’s direction. Pacing himself better, the Overseer continued to his destination. Vega’s people were doing well to keep Sint off of Thuller, their magic forcing her on the defensive for the time being. She still was slowly advancing through their onslaught, the flame around Sint nullifying most of the force being flung her way.

Vega himself stood atop a tower, side by side with his strongest spellcasters. Seeing his frontliners push against Sint’s barrier was enough to urge him to consider new options, seeing that an onslaught wasn’t going to hold her forever. The gilded ethereal called to his chief sorcerer, “Althar, start weaving an Aransi Snare behind my Champions. I want her stalled as long as possible, so we can see what our dear Overseer is planning.”

The sorcerer named Althar pushed his energy past his wrappings, his arms splitting into many tendrils as chaotic energy flowed around him. This ‘Aransi Snare’ must’ve been a particularly rare and difficult incantation, as it began to break Althar’s assumed form apart, returning the ethereal to a state of pure energy. Dark magic began to permeate the ground, appearing as webbing. Vega’s champions passed over the snare undetected, leading Sint right into his trap. As she stepped over the snare, the webbing launched itself upwards to catch her legs, going no further since her purifying flame was still much too overwhelming. That was all Vega could ask for, unfortunately. 

Keeping his distance from the radiating flame, Vega approached Sint as she ripped the snare off of herself. He nervously spoke, “Right, so. I can see why Overseer Thuller was whipped up into such a panic about you.”

The webbing around her legs was quickly being torn apart, Sint herself paying little attention to it now. She looked at Vega, “I killed his first master, High Warlord Blackfist. To him, I must appear as some sort of spirit of justice, haunting him wherever he scurries off to.” She flexed her plate-clad hand, pointing it to Vega, “And I think, for once, I can agree with an orc.”

“While I can see that some of our Dear Overseer’s soldiers are roaches, scuttling beneath his shadow, I severely doubt that Thuller is among them. Your light hasn’t scattered him. He must have a plan… Right?” Vega quickly glanced back, seeing Thuller’s figure becoming harder to make out the further he went, “We’re not being left to die. I refuse to be the fodder of a coward.”

“Then step aside, ethereal. The Void took your homeworld, your physical body. Why serve it now? What good does it do for you to bow to Chaos?” Vega’s attention was captured. He didn’t see a drawn knife cut through the shadowy webbing he commanded to trap Sint, nor did he see that Sint was now approaching him. The intensity of her gaze, the finite truth in her words, the power she commanded. It was enticing to the bejeweled warp-stalker.

He waved for his Champions to stand back, “Stay with me a moment, Lady Dagon. I will not hold you for long.”

“What good will that do me? I want Thuller, and he’s getting away.” Sint steps forward, now free from the snare.

“You know of the story of K’aresh. Of my people’s downfall.” He buzzed with energy, “That gives me some insight into what you’ve experienced. Pray tell, what members of my failing species have you consorted with?” Clicking his gilded talons together, he leaned in, “I am curious.”

“The Consortium, originally. I don’t know if she still counts herself in their ranks.” Sint sheathes her dagger, “Altair of the Vagabond Convoy.”

“Altair? I respect you more just by mention of the name. Her Convoy offers a window into the future I want for my people, a future unbound by rules and masters just as our forms are unbound by flesh and blood.” He looks down, “I thought the Void was to be my answer, and for a while, it has been.”   
  
“What changed your mind? Don’t tell me that our small conversation has changed your mind.” She frowned, “I’d rather not learn that so many follow someone with such little conviction.”

He lifts his hands, “No, no. You’ve just proven a point.” He paused, almost as if he was composing himself, “For the longest time, many of my kin have used the power of shadows because it was the same strength that destroyed our home. We’d be fools to not attempt to master that darkness, to prevent it from being our bane again.” 

“Perhaps we were too hasty in our rationalization. The Nexus Princes play a political game, playing with money and lives atop their thrones. They bicker and struggle to be the one voice that decides the future of our species, fighting for power instead of the future itself. The Ethereum chose the Void. The Consortium chose money. The Protectorate chose war.” Vega shrugged, “And many of us who were crushed beneath their heel, we chose freedom.”

“Was it worth it?” Sint sheathed her sword, “Could you say that this freedom was worth everything you’ve done to earn it?”

“I wouldn’t even say I am free. Like you said, I serve Chaos. I am a servant to the Void, whether or not I pray to it. Instead of a Nexus Prince, I have a Dark Lord.” He shook his head, “That’s not the future I see for myself, merely a slave to a warlord I don’t even know. I see myself uncontrolled by law and rule, living a pure life high among the stars.” 

“Like the Vagabond Convoy.”

“Precisely. It’s my fault for allying with dark forces, I suppose.” The ethereal stepped to the side, “Maybe this day is the day I can break free. Perhaps you can do a favor for me, and I shall leave your war. Could you send word to Altair?”   
  
“What do you have to say to her?” Sint walked next to Vega, not yet revealing her back to the ethereal, “She is a busy woman.”

“Does she have room for a few Ethereum who have gone their own way?” He wasn’t hesitant in his question, “Vega would like to join the Convoy.”

“She’d become a new master.” Sint quirked a brow, “Unless you know something more than I do.”

“I do. But I won’t trouble you any further on ethereal politics. You’ve got an orc to catch.” Vega snapped his fingers, a jewel in one of his claws flickering with magic, “And I have a bit of distance to make between myself and the Void.”

“Don’t get back in my way, Vega.” Sint looked beyond him, off to her next target, “I don’t give second chances.”

“No sane person should.” The ethereal’s snap conjured a portal, a portal that closed when the last ethereal vanished through it. Thuller had made quite some distance between them, but Sint could see the path he took. Obviously, he planned to do something in the center of the War Camp, but what that was was hard to tell. Sint didn’t know Thuller’s skillset, nor did she know what the War Camp had in stock. What she did know, though, is that Thuller wasn’t keen on facing her one on one. If he could, he was going to game their duel as much as he reasonably could. Considering the line of bloodthirsty minions in her path, he had already begun to do that. She, herself, wasn’t planning on taking her time to face the Overseer.

She’d spent enough time chasing orcs to know that giving them any amount of time is an extreme risk, especially after her dealings with Thuller’s previous master. Xagroth Blackfist was probably one of Sint’s lesser foes she’s faced over the years, but he was by no means a pushover. Because she battled against Gods and Demons doesn’t mean a less than immortal threat would pose any less difficulty to her. Xagroth may have been an undead warrior-warlock from another time, but he was still much less than a divine aberration or a royal army and demonic army. Just how Sint was. It wasn’t their manner of existence that defined them, it was their actions. While her actions had not been clean nor pure, she could at least see that she was the better mortal than the first master of the Black Legion. He was an abomination, a representation of conquest and greed made manifest.

Sint was War. She was death, struggle, chaos, growth, and the refusal to lose. She represented the force that should always meet evil, to never let it win cleanly. Her blade was bloody, her mind heavy, but she knew she was doing the right thing. And she enjoyed it. But Xagroth? He was Conquest. He was the thing that swept into wartorn lands and abused them, profiteering over loss and devastation. His fist was mighty, clutched around the coin and lives of the lands he broke. He didn’t seek the defeat of a foe. He sought domination, subjugation, and the most terrible deeds any man, woman, or any other could make. Unlike the Lord, Xagroth didn’t fight to survive. Unlike Vantel and Ord, the orc didn’t fight for an ideal or any greater good. His was a blackened verdict, a monstrous decree. “All in my sights shall become mine or face a dire fate.”

She could not sympathize with the Black Legion. All she could do was hunt them down, destroy them, and make it so that they could never repeat the atrocities they had already committed. She sprinted forward, not using the power of Dragonfire. In her path were some of the most dangerous criminals in Azeroth’s history, forgotten because of a Dark Tyrant’s decree. She didn’t even feel like they were deserving of her sword. As blades swung towards her, javelins piercing the soil near her, Sint’s heart began to pound again. Instead of her usual stoic approach to battle, she yelled out to the monsters in her way, fists clenched. 

An axe struck out against her, swinging to intercept her sprint. It missed, for Sint stopped. She slid, leaping with all of the momentum she held. Carrying it, her metal-clad fist impacted with the skull of an unwitting undead. Crunch. Her fist shattered the top of the undead’s skull, knocking it flat over with a sickening thunk. The others charged her, which Sint met with the undead’s mace. A black cleaver, the same one that tried to strike her down, came again. Its haft was splintered by a well placed strike from her mace, Sint leaning into the strike so that she got close to the orc. Her elbow collided with his gut, a spear soon piercing the orc’s body. As she felt more attacks landing on the now deceased minion, she began to realize that these soldiers no longer had a mind. And if they did, they were as base and vile as she thought they were. She took the orc’s broken axe in hand, quickly shoving his corpse into an approaching troll. 

The troll was crushed by the weight of the orc and the force of Sint’s shove, giving her a brief moment to look for the rest of Thuller’s minions. More undead, more orcs. Two archers stood atop towers, a spear thrower stood behind the front lines, with an orc wielding a massive hammer and a pair of what seemed to be ex-Dreadguard flanking him. Sint threw the axe the spear thrower’s way, the weight of the object knocking the orc off his feet. She had a feeling that it wouldn’t kill him, but less time spent getting away from projectiles was time well earned. Arrows were knocked, fired, and dodged. Two shield-bearing undead rushed her, boxing her in. And a heavy maul swung down, attempting to flatten her. Sint hooked her mace beneath one of the dreadguard’s shields, pulling the undead her way. He was but a shield for Sint, as the mace squashed him like a roach beneath a sewer guard’s boot. The orc struggled to pull his weapon from the forsaken’s body, giving Sint a moment to rip the shield from beneath the corpse and throw it at the other shield-bearer. He blocked. Perfect.

His shield raised high to defend his head, he left his legs unguarded. A burst of Dragonfire flowed through Sint as she dashed to him, cracking her stolen mace against his knee. It crumpled. He toppled over, unable to hold himself up. She heard a wet noise and a crunch, likely the orc pulling his hammer from the other dreadguard. A shield would be raised to meet another strike, the orc’s heavy warhammer colliding with metal. The force nearly staggered her, and definitely hurt, but the power within her kept her bones intact. The orc pulled his hammer back, taking her shield with it, as he swung again and again. Sint dodged and even rolled from his rampage, time the archers used to nearly hit her. Sint threw her looted mace to the side, picking up one of the dreadguard’s swords. She ran forward, predictably so, leading the orc to eagerly try to smash her again. Even if his mind wasn’t his own, Sint knew he would’ve enjoyed this either way. 

She dodged to the side with a leap, grunting as she saw the spear thrower stand back up. There went her window.

The spear thrower howled in agony for a few seconds, much to Sint’s surprise. His body jerked around, almost unnaturally so. The other three stopped attacking as this happened, giving Sint a short moment to take the other dreadguard’s blade. Looking back, she saw what had happened to the spear thrower. Even though their mind was already claimed by an accursed blade, it didn’t seem that was enough. Black smoke poured from their eyes, their skin cracked and marred by that same darkness. It was different to the violet gash that crossed the other mind-controlled Black Legionnaires. It was far more powerful.

They stopped to judge the black magic, to judge their fellow minion consumed by another force. Whatever had happened they didn’t move to attack Sint as the spear thrower finally stopped jerking around, their body growing much more formal in stance than a feral grunt. He approached with a slight frown on his face. Said black magic even began to influence his held spear, it flowing with the same smokey energy. A powerful voice came from the throat of an orc that didn’t possess one seconds ago, “Sint Dagon. What a surprise.” He pointed to the dead soldiers around him, “When I felt the power of Thuller’s blade being used against Black Legionnaires, I grew concerned. What could drive one of the Overseers to such things? I’m so glad it was you.”

Sint spat to the side, a growl in her voice, “And you are? Do I have to worry about another mind-controlling mastermind?”

“I can only dominate the weak willed, or those without a will. Take it as the perfection of this Black Legion. These soldiers aren’t people, they are tools for a greater will.” He pointed his spear to Sint, “This army has become the ultimate vessel of conquest.”

“If they weren’t already trying to destroy my race, I’d be disgusted. I’m more curious, though, of who you are. Or, what you are.” Sint lowered her stance, slowly pacing around her foe like a predator.

“I am your salvation.” He lunged without a moment’s hesitation, his spear coming down hard and fast against Sint. She deflected with one of her stolen swords, only to find that the orc was very fast and skilled with this spear. He almost seemed to pirouette from her parry, slapping the end of the spear against her arm. The sheer strength of his strike knocked Sint off balance, allowing him to dance into another powerful attack. The spear’s head came toward a weak point in her armor, stopped just centimeters before impact. She brought both blades down, pinning the spear to the ground. He dropped it, his leg rising and cracking Sint across the face. 

That hurt. Sint fell backwards, rolling back to stop him from crushing her skull with his boots. Blood streamed down her face, her nose a disaster site. She jumped to her feet, only seeing the orc grinning at her like an idiot. That pissed her off as much as it excited her, because it meant she didn’t have to play nice to have fun with this enemy. He picked up his spear, “This body is worthy. It proves a challenge to you, Shadow of War.”

“Lucky hit,” She shook her head quickly, doing her best to get the world to stop spinning, “Won’t happen again.” A fearsome smile crossed her face as she wiped the blood from her face, “ You aren’t going to get another in.”

“Really? Is that the impression you got from our little skirmish?” The orc took his spear in both hands, crouching into a feral stance, “You’re just as confident as I remember you.”

“I’ll think about what that means after I’m done with this camp.” She crossed her swords, sliding one across the other, “I don’t think straight when I’m this worked up.”

“So you enjoy THIS!?” He yelled, leaping and bringing his spear down towards Sint’s neck. 

She dodged to the side, his body now falling down towards her stolen swords, “HELL. YES.” And so the spear thrower’s body would be skewered on forsaken steel, Sint’s taunt getting whoever piloted him to make such a risky play. But perhaps it was in the shadowy manipulator’s plans to get the body so close to her, for the corpse began to bloat and tear apart with that same smokey force. Sint threw the orc’s body as far as she could, the corpse and the swords in it smacking against one of the archer’s towers. Just as soon as the spear thrower came into possession of a dark force, he was eradicated by a massive pulse of energy. Black and a pale green magic billowed from within the orc’s body, detonating with tremendous force. The tower did more than fall, it practically was thrown from where it stood, the force even enough to knock the warhammer wielding orc off his feet.

Sint stood against it, using the momentary chaos to finish off the hammer toting goliath of a warrior. Finally walking to the body of the axe-wielding orc, she ripped a javelin from his back, and flung it into the last archer above. A ruthless victory, at little personal loss to Sint. She spat a tooth out, slightly winded from the intense fight. Smacking her cheeks in an attempt to reinvigorate herself, she looked forward to where Thuller sprinted off to. Another shake of her head managed to finally unblur her vision, “I’ll have to ask Sion to grow me a new tooth. Third one this year… She will be one mad elf.”

A loud and painful orcish cry came from Thuller’s direction. Could it be that Thuller was being dominated by the same manipulator as the spear thrower? It couldn’t be, could it? Thuller at least seemed to be strong enough in will to realize his odds in battle, to deny typical orcish customs for the sake of victory. Perhaps the Overseer slipped into the ravine, now that would be an imagine Sint could find herself laughing at. Nevertheless, she needed to find him, so she drew Rebellion from its sheath and continued her march. The few minions Thuller did gather in his flight were either dead or completely still as she passed, staring blankly into the sky with cold violet tinged eyes. Peculiar, but Sint wondered if that the accursed blade’s owner perished, that his thralls were left in a docile state. She didn’t worry much about them, only feeling sorry that this is how they died. Mind-controlled and left braindead. It wasn’t a fate she would wish on many, for sure.

So Sint approached the structure, almost a temple, at the edge of Giant’s Landing. It was immaculate and near Gorian in design. Perhaps it was used as a place of both worship and study of the golden energy that streamed from within the Landing, that or it was simply an egomaniac’s choice for a study regarding magic that they didn’t own. Either way, it was occupied when Sint arrived. But it wasn’t Thuller that Sint saw first, no.

The same smokey black and green magic had left its mark in the stone that built up the statue, with the likely source being a figure standing near the very edge of the temple. Bound in a pale greyish green mist, the being seemed to be almost composed of said power. It was covered in a fine shining silver plate and a great flowing cloak that seemed to melt into mist. Its face was obscured by a beak-like mask, something akin to what Sint saw a long time ago on a dead doctor’s face. It was said to protect from the plague of undeath, medicine and aromas held in the beak to ward of disease. Perhaps it saved the doctor from disease, but it did not save him from the afflicted. There were no weapons in its hands, no, the only thing it held was the neck of Overseer Thuller.

It twisted its hand, ending the Overseer before he got his duel with Sint. And as if it were but a nightmare, it vanished when Sint blinked. Things just got a helluva lot more complicated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> High Warlord Xagroth Blackfist was a real piece of work. Sint fought him and his Black Legion at least five times before he finally bit the dust, and it was only because Sint tricked him into summoning her larger enemy at the time.


	7. War on the March

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> War and Conquest promise death.

War on the March. A sight to behold in these days where even war cannot be clear. Ages long ago, when armies clashed, there was a side of good and a side of evil. A war was to bring these ideals together, to see them clash, to see which one was deserving of a place in eternity. From Empires to Swarms, there was nothing like a war from an eternity long since passed. These days, however, things were not so clear cut. Great atrocities could be justified, forgiven, and forgotten in the name of ideals. Swaths of ancient land could be burned and stolen, with no consequence beyond a border dispute. The very essence of life could be perverted, and that could be waved away because of some leader’s bold ideals of peace. Sint never lived in an age where clearcut war was a guarantee. Every day she marched, she had to question if what she was doing was right.

And now, looking upon the terrified faces of the armies of the wicked, she recognized that she was right. The aberrant, the monster, the abhorrent, the malicious… they all loathed her face. No longer did they see a potential pawn to be subverted and converted, no longer did they see a future ally in the battle against those she defied. They saw the truth in Sint’s face.   
It was not by chance that this had happened, Sint had fought each day to carve her name into the annals of Azerothian history. So what if her war was not the war the rest fought? So what if her war was hidden, spoken of only in hushed tones? If they spoke at all of her deeds, then she has succeeded. All that she had done, all that she will do, she could feel safe in knowing that nobody will forget them.

Nobody will forget her sacrifices, her hardships. No soul would be allowed to dream of a day where Sint Dagon never existed. And if they even dared try, she’d march on. She held Thuller’s corpse in a tight grip, holding him over the edge of the cliff that Toth’ag’s warriors were standing beneath. They knew she didn’t kill the Overseer, as no cut and no struggle was visible on his corpse. Nay, they saw the mark of a shadowy hand tightly gathered around his neck, the very life ripped from his body. Perhaps she was trying to remind them that sometimes, evil’s greatest foe is itself. Those who hunt for power tend to devour their own to get what they want, especially when they don’t get exactly what they wanted. She knew not if the new Black Legion answered to this wraith, but power alike its own was what gave her a worthy battle against that possessed soldier. If this was their new leadership, this fear was going to wash over them as a plague.

She glanced down to the masses, her head held high, “This is your payment for your duties. Effort well rewarded.” And without another moment’s hesitation, she dropped Thuller’s body into their midst. They scattered like roaches, fearful of both her and the potential that the wraith might return. But no wraith came as they left, no, it was a man of flesh and bone. Appearing like the night itself, Aranor of Stromgarde finally joined Sint within the now deserted War Camp. To say that he was astonished was an understatement, as the look of sheer dumbfounded awe stuck on his face was hard to miss. Sint met him with a smile now one tooth smaller.

“Insanity, Lady Dagon. Absolute insanity.” He shook his head, a short laugh coming from him, “Not only do you find these heathens, but you beat them into submission. Alone!” He kneeled, head bowed to her, “I, Aranor, Son of Roy and Battlesworn of Strom, dedicate myself to your blade and will. By Arathor’s Bond do I become yours to command.”

“Rise, ranger.” Sint placed her hand on his shoulder, locking eyes with his, “You know as well as I that I cannot lead you to the next battle. My first command to you is to bring me to your Battalion, so that I might meet your leader.”

“Can’t you slay them all on your own?” He was incredulous, “Our foes have fled, riding each cardinal direction, from you. If they fear you alone, then you alone can eradicate them.”

“If only that were true, Ranger. I am neither wise nor am I certain of victory, but I am certain that facing them alone is nothing short of suicide. My path must be seen through, I am not keen on dying before then.” Sint took her hand back, pointing to the temple on the ridge, “You have not seen the enemy we face, nor have you seen the power they command. I may be able to challenge them, but I…”

“You need help.” Aranor’s face grew less hopeful, ever still inspired by Sint’s deeds,” Just as I called for help, you require it still. Then in my debt to you, my lady, I will bring you to the Silver Battalion. Though, first, can we search this camp? There may be clues to our opponent hidden within, things that our foe might have left behind in their hasty retreat.” The ranger glanced to the temple Sint pointed out, “That would be a good place to start.”

“Agreed.” Sint sheathed Rebellion, jogging back to the temple on the ridge. Its placement gave it a great view on the great stream of fire emanating from deep within the chasm, with many machines and stations set around the rift’s edge. Within the temple itself was a conduit, similar to something Sint had seen before, and the research notes of those who studied the Echo of Fire. Written in a dialect of orcish Sint had never seen before, she couldn’t make out exactly what they found. But what she could tell, from all the machines and ritual implements around the rift, is that they must’ve found something. Aranor kept looking through the research station, while Sint approached the great fire that drew her here in the first place.

It was a hard memory to recall, even if her brother did eventually return from the grave. Someone’s death was always hard to reconcile with, but she had long since stopped mourning for a man who still lived. The fire whispered to her, the closer she got. And as soon as she stood at the edge, she saw a massive figure descend from the sky. A mighty drake of vermillion flame flew downwards, his splendor nigh unmatched by anything Sint had ever seen. Beautiful ornamentation, jewelry of so many cultures, and the sheer wonder of a dragon… this must be Kumostraz in his true form. The drake lowered himself, flying within the midst of the rift, looking to Sint with a curious hum.

“I wonder if the Ranger can see me.” He shook his head, “I guess if he could he already would have, so that’s a moot point.”

“Gift-giver, I hear voices within the fire. And, I feel stronger that I’m near it.” She sat, looking up to him, “Do you know why?”

“I do not. Your echoes were something I never expected when I gave the gift to you, as they were something that I didn’t see until after my death.” The dragon’s voice was much greater now that he was in his true form, “Your brother was the first. You were the greatest.”

Sint felt a small panic run through her, as she suddenly realized that looking to flame felt as if she were looking upon the face of a family member. Though so much had been revealed, she still worried that she was losing her mind. It was as if it was calling her to embrace it, as a sister might hug a brother. No longer did she look at the dragon, “I feel as if I should… enter it.”

“Leap into it. Find power within the echoes left behind.” Kumostraz began to fly upwards, “I cannot guide you as well as I wished, but if we are to learn how Dragonfire has evolved, you must take the first steps.” 

“I will not take that step, not yet.” Sint stood, stepping away from the edge, “My path must be assured to succeed before I make such a leap.”

“Then make your journey, and make certain it is the right thing to do.” Kumostraz faded into the fire, “I shall remain here to defend your legacy. Though I am but a spirit, this font of power gives me enough strength to manifest myself, even if for a short period of time. Return soon.”

She nodded to the pillar, even though Kumo likely had already faded back into the realm of spirits. Whether or not he saw her, she felt it was enough. Pushing both her cape and her hair somewhat to the side, she turned back to the temple, finding Aranor sifting through the contents of the Black Legion’s research lab. He had collected a few items to the side, stuffing a few papers and whatnot in his satchel while he moved. It was impressive to see how a Ranger collected evidence, details. She herself couldn’t make too much use from this research, but Aranor saw hidden details that she’d likely never make out without some assistance. It’s not that she didn’t pay attention to the finer details, it just was that Aranor was in a different class altogether. His senses had been fine tuned over the years to find the most hidden mote of information, to pick up on even the coldest trail. The things he picked up seemed random at first, a few vials, a notepad, some discarded pieces of chalk… but Sint started to see what was happening. There was a reason the lab seemed to be in such a state of disarray. 

Thuller must’ve tried to destroy this research before the beak-masked wraith took his life. What Aranor seemed to be doing was setting things back into place, attempting to rebuild what the lab looked like before the Overseer tried to erase his work. Small traces of residue fit the bottoms of the mostly intact vials, a place on the shelf that lacked dust was where the notepad fit, and even the chalk found place in the center of the temple, Aranor able to make out the smallest traces that some sort of ritual circle was drawn in the middle of the room. His efforts were greatly impressive to Sint, but she wondered if he was going to be able to figure anything out from the recreation. Even though Rangers were meant to be some of the greatest trackers on Azeroth, they weren’t all-knowing.

He stepped back after a while, “Don’t think I can completely recreate the scene. A lot of the stuff here’s pretty smashed up or just completely missing.” Some of the residue was stuck on his hands, something he corrected by wiping off on his coat, “I can’t say I’ve seen a setup exactly like this before. I’ve trailed enough cultists to know that this is a powerful ritual setup, but I’m not one hundred percent sure what. My mind guesses they were trying to harness that big pit of fire for energy to do something, maybe summon more monsters or open a portal to connect them to the rest of their forces?”

“I don’t think so, Aranor.” Sint said, walking through his recreation. She looked to each item, guessing what the missing objects could be, “I’m a bit of an expert on all things occult, and what this is telling me is that it was some sort of siphon rig. But the specific type I’m thinking of requires four tools placed equidistant around the room. Problem is, we’re missing two.”

“What is the purpose of such a ritual, Sint?” Aranor looked to the two remaining tools, a small obsidian pyramid with qiraji etchings and a dagger forged of a metal that was hard to look at for too long, “Nothing around here suggests a vessel to hold that much power.”

“Well, the vessel wouldn’t be a tool. It’d be a person.” She sees Aranor’s surprise evidently on his face, “They’d be ushering the gift of Dragonfire onto a new person, if successful.”

“That’s bad, isn’t it?” The ranger steps to the side, “It’s definitely bad.” 

“Extremely. Dragonfire doesn’t contradict dark magic like the Light does. Reasonably, it could be granted to this new Black Legion’s Dark Lord to grant him tremendous power.” She tapped her finger against her chin, “It wouldn’t be anywhere near the level of strength Dragonfire grants me now, but it’d certainly still boost whatever existing power they possess by a large margin.”

“Bastards… “ He rubbed his beard, “So what do we do?” 

“Nothing yet.” Sint watches Aranor’s expression carefully, seeing that the man was already thinking about what she said. After a few moments, she chose to speak more of what she meant, “I feel I can trust you with this, Aranor. But you alone, for the moment.”

“Speak your peace. If it’s something you wish to keep confidential, I will keep your secrets.” He nodded, “I am a man of a few morals, after all. Not many, but enough to keep myself steady.”

“I want them to come back for it.” Sint said, in hushed words, looking to the rift again.

“What?!” Aranor reached out, “That’s… Somewhat brilliant, actually. You know they want it, so they will come back. And we’ll know it.”

“We do not know much of them, Aranor. If I can predict one of their moves, then they will begin to become much more clear to us.” She looks to him, a somewhat crooked smile on her face, “We will catch them.”

“...Right.” He saluted her, “I like the idea, but there’s one thing. We’ll have to wait for them to come back, if we want to catch ‘em.” There was a momentary pause, “And, well… You know we can’t stay.”

She turned, heading towards the temple’s exit, “That does not matter. When they come, I will know.”

Aranor watched her leave, his eyes just locked on her. There was something within the man that was screaming for him to be careful around her, the same feeling he got whenever he was deep within enemy territory. Perhaps this is why so many came to fear her, for she was a true predator. There were some intuitions, some feelings, and a plethora of other things that she did that sent off dangerous energy. At first, he had felt a little betrayed seeing that one of his icons, the Shadow of War herself, was a small and somewhat cute girl. The beauty of that first impression was lost on him now, now that he saw her as what she really was. Appearances were nothing, it was all on how someone wanted to be seen. How someone carries themselves. Perhaps the ranger could see a time when Sint did not walk with the weight of the world on her shoulders, when she didn’t have to exist as a giant among men. A time when she laughed and smiled, a normal girl. But then again, he also could see that perhaps that day never existed. Had that shadow, that weight, had it always walked with her?

As he saw her stop and turn, beckoning him to come with her, he let his thoughts go. If he was to guide her to the Silver Battalion, he needed to lead. Now was not the time to question the very nature of the person he put all his trust in, for that time had long passed. Everything he needed to know was cemented in his oath to her, by the very Bond of Arathor itself. Only a coward breaks a bond, and only a fool makes such a bond so eagerly. He was tied to what he did, even if it turned out to be a troubling choice. Such was the nature of the few morals he clung to, in hopes to keep himself human in the dark times he lived in. Aranor pulled his bow from his back, running forward to rejoin Sint. Their journey was going to be short, but time was of the essence.

\-----------------

“My Lord.” The voice was hesitant, even though that voice held so much strength. A spectral being such as this one had little to fear, especially among the races of Azeroth, but it still trembled at the sight of their master. It was an odd feeling, to still tremble as if they were still alive. Both flesh and bone had long since been torn away from them, but the feelings of life never truly died. Fear was chief among them, the fear of facing true death, or a fate far harsher. Both things were in their master’s hands, their master being one of the few beings in all the world that could end them.

“Malad.” His voice was of a thunderous and earthy quality, as if it was born from the land when it quaked. A deep chasm of senses came from the way he said the wraith’s name alone, deep pride evoked chief above all. Hard to perceive in the deep shadow of his tower, the massive form of the Dark Lord of the Black Legion moved as a ghost through the room. He stopped before the light could reach him through a window, “It is good to see you back. I didn’t expect you to move so quickly to leave Toth’ag, part of me was worried that you could be stopped by our foe.”

“Your will was carried out. Cowards such as Thuller should never be allowed to lead, as you said.” They clicked their metallic fingers together, “A problem that you rectified.”

“Well said, Malad.” The Dark Lord stepped back, moving to lift something from an obelisk in the back, “I would like you to look through my eyes to see your next goal.”

“Do you wish to hear my report?” The knight looked down their beaked visor to see what the Dark Lord had for them.

“Tell me.” The Dark Lord said, his hand reaching through the weak sunlight to hold out an orb resembling an ogron’s eye. Malad had never seen the Dark Lord’s full form, only pieces from their memory of being created, as well as his hand each time he reached from the shadows he lived in. The Dark Lord’s hand was immense, for he could easily hold his Eye in his palm, where Malad required both of theirs to hold it. Anything the Dark Lord did was immense, his steps alone causing Malad to shiver. It was a mercy that the Dark Lord allowed any to stand before him, the wraith almost feeling that if he chose to, he could be unstoppable to any mortal man on Azeroth. A hand wrought of the most powerful metal, plunged into the most wretched forge. A fist of blackened steel. A fist of mercy to darkness.

“Toth’ag still stands, but those who you once commanded have fled it. They are unworthy of you, my Lord.” The wraith cradled the eye close to themself, “The Giant’s Flare still persists within Giant’s Landing.”

“Hm. This was a victory, after all. Weeding out the weak from an army that is meant to be unstoppable.” His monumental form moved back into a sitting position at the end of the room, “Though it still does trouble me that War is on the march.”

“Prithee, master, why does this one trouble you so?” The wraith lifted the eye, showing a vivid image of both Sint and Aranor hiking through the mountains.

“She is power incarnate, my Knight. There are things that she has accomplished within her short lifetime that put many heroes and myths to shame. That flare within Giant’s Landing? It’s a fraction of the power she can output.” The Dark Lord’s voice sounded rather neutral about such a foe, “I do want that strength for a reason. I cannot let any like her ever challenge my power.”

“That is wise.” The wraith looked back to the eye, “I would hate to see your power challenged. Those with power sometimes are still unworthy of licking the boots of their betters, people with ideals such as your own.”

“As you say.” The Dark Lord leans and rests his chin against his fist, “Though the world is far too complex to expect all minds to conform to one goal, to one cause… They must at least follow an order.” His ghastly blue eyes strike back to Malad, “Is it unreasonable for me to expect the lesser to follow my command?”

“If that is unreasonable, then I have no place in this room, my Lord.” The wraith focused on the eye, “My existence relies on your command. The weak exist to serve beings such as you, so high and unstoppable, so great and mig-”

“If I told you to lick my boots, they’d already be spotless.” The Dark Lord grumbled, “But your insight is fine enough. Look into my vision, see your next step.”

“Your will is mine, my master.” Malad spoke softly, peering deep into the now pulsating gem. The Dark Lord empowered these jewels with an unknown power of sight beyond sight, an ability to look beyond both land and sea. No obstacle could be denied by the Dark Lord, but as Malad looked through the eye, they found themselves incapable of seeing anything but a blinding gilded light. When the wraith looked up, he saw the Dark Lord standing within the shadow.

“You have seen what I have seen, I assume.” The Dark Lord waved to the orb, “Nothing but light. Infuriating, isn’t it? To be denied sight that you are so used to having, so used to having as an assurance.” He reached his hand out, the orb floating back into hand, “We are now going in blind, as each soldier has for thousands of lifetimes.”

“Master, so what if she blinds us? If she has allies, if she is removed from them, perhaps then we have sight of their actions!” Malad stands, lifting their arms to the sky, “All cannot be obscured from your sight.”

“As you say, but that does not assuage my concern much. War is decided by leaders, not by the pawns they control. I was a footsoldier, once. I knew what it felt like to fight in battle, to hate my masters as they hid behind the lines.” The Dark Lord pointed to Malad, “As the years have gone on, as I have fought and bled, I have seen the very essence of war laid out before me. So a soldier may bleed and die, his effort deciding whether his leader’s stratagem is a success, but the leader inspires and brings those orders to heel.” A single thunderous step breached the weak light, the wrought black steel of an iron overlord’s heel slamming into stone that hardly could hold him, “It is we who drives the chariots of the future forward, we who grind the weak against the wheels of time.” Another step brought deep fear into the dead heart and soul of Wraith-Knight Malad.

Before the beaked specter’s eyes stood a colossal juggernaut of death and despair, an inexorable conqueror of light. No living eye glared down at the frightened form of Malad, the dead Dark Emperor of the Black Legion much greater than the spirit ever imagined. Monolithic. Monumental. Merciless. Fine metal armor stretched for what seemed like leagues across the Dark Lord’s form, black and a deep dark red marking the very composition of his being. The Dark Lord was unlike anything Malad had ever seen, much larger than an ogre, yet still smaller than an ogron. Broad like an orc, as imposing as the most black-hearted eredar lord. Eyes of a stillborn star, striking dead light through the very essence of Malad’s being. He was a chasm of horror before Malad, his voice even more immense now that he saw the true form of his creator. As the already weak light dimmed before his true form, the Dark Lord spoke, “I am not Lucen. I am not Bor Alsgabar. I am no Iren, no Halij. I cannot claim the strength of Sargeras, nor the corruptive power of N’zoth. But I can claim something higher than each of these conquerors. I will kill Sint Dagon, and my Shadow of Conquest shall fall over all the land.”

Malad stumbled backwards, in awe of his master’s words, “No man, no law, no divine authority… Nothing will stop me from stamping my legacy into the very eternal annals of not only this world, but each world that remains within this blighted reality.” Malad could not tell whether or not they could hear their heart pounding, even without a heart, or it was simply the tower shaking with each step of their lord. The Dark Lord, mountainous in comparison to the knight, looked forward through the window of his tower. Then, Malad could feel it. The air grew warmer, but not in a caring and hopeful kind. It was a sickly warmth, of rot and the supreme deathly heat of a dying star. As if the Dark Lord was forging the very essence of reality into a blade, a shadowy weapon that dwarfed Malad in scale formed within the stagnant air of the tower. As the Dark Lord moved, the blade forged in hand, finished by the time he stopped. Both a sickle and a blade, the weapon seemed to be inspired by the takes of many cultures on what Death’s weapon might look like, imbued by a little touch of war. It hummed with angry red power, the metal itself seemingly built out of vertebrae of Titans. The Scourge would truly find inspiration in this conqueror’s edge.

Standing on his balcony, the Dark Lord ushered Malad to join his side. He pointed his sword out into the corrupted countryside, twisted metal buildings sticking out of the diseased soil like boils and blisters. The Dark Lord laughed, “I will not allow such trifles as an inability to see stop my conquest, my knight. Grakghul stands above my vision come true, a city born of the inspiration of my people’s greatest leaders. See the belching draconic forges, twilight devastation inspiring them. The Twilight's Hammer was my people’s idea, something that brought the great orcish horde to this land. They were the backbone of the military that crushed mankind, but they were scorned by those who claimed the old ways could save the soul of our almost victorious people.” He shook his head, “Foolishness. They shunned power because they couldn’t handle the reality of victory. And look at what power grants us. Look to our armories, great and massive, filled to the brim with the strongest weapons ever built in orcish inspiration. They are of the Blackrock clan, and of the Scourge. The Blackrock were the greatest clan of orcs, leaders and powerhouses in their own rights. Without their arms and armor, the Horde would’ve never stood a chance. And to the Scourge. Could you believe that the Scourge was built from the orcs? Ner’zhul was the first Lich King, the Shadow Council becoming his first Lich. Even the first Death Knights, the first great undead champions, were orcs.” His sword lilted to point to an immense arena, “And you cannot forget Hellscream. You cannot forget Bladefist. You cannot ever forget the name of Blackhand. These were the finest warriors among the orcs, heroes embodying the sheer strength and willpower of our entire races’ history. Their battles forged an ultimate warrior’s path for the orcs, something the fools that lead them now forget in the name of human peace.” Finally the Dark Lord lifted his sword high, pointed to the sky and to the tower around him. He yelled out, his voice booming to the black city beneath them, “To the city and to the tower I stand upon, is the legacy of the forger of orcish destiny, Gul’dan! To his memory I yell my name, the inheritor of the Shadow Council and the Glory of the Orcs! I am Blackfist, the Blackened, the High Warlord of the Black Legion, and now! Dark Lord of Gul’mar and to the world, to MY GOTHGOR!”

The city cried out their leader’s name, as he finally revealed himself to them. The Black Legion believed their creator dead, but he now stood stronger and greater than ever believed before them. Xagroth Blackfist rose from obscurity, living an impossible and hard life that lead him here. Unlike so many in his shoes, he did not learn the kindness of life through struggle. He did not learn the beauty of pain and victory, he only learned the harsh heart of life and death through his countless battles. A callous and iron-heart was forged in the flames of endless slaughter, teaching Xagroth a maligned truth. If there was to be a world united, it would be united in endless struggle. A people never grew, never found truth, in peace. Peace was a lie, there was only war and the conquest that came after it. History was to be built by a Dark Lord, who’s boot would stamp hope and destiny out for the rest of eternity. He rose from the ashes of a hated clan, a hated order, a hated master. From the remains of an old and evolved evil, holding the reigns of a new form of his people’s creation. The Scourge, the Twilight’s Hammer, the Dark Horde… They were now united as one.

The Black Legion rose again from a hateful city in an abandoned land. Crawling chaos was to gnaw across the world, across the stars, a new Burning Legion. The bane of freedom was held in an iron-borne dictator’s hand, pointed to the heart of Sint Dagon. The Shadow of Conquest rose to contest the Shadow of War, a challenge unlike any set to Sint before. Blackfist knew he was not a divine entity who almost brought Azeroth’s ruin, he knew he was no forgotten king who fought unbelievable odds for centuries and threatened to destroy the spark of humanity… He was but an orc who tried to rise to the legacy of Gul’dan. An orc who transcended mortality and flesh, bound by his own choices and truth. He stood in no shadow, for his was the shadow that now was cast across the land. He already knew the armies of the failed Horde and the fracturing Alliance strove to come against him, already sending their pawns to die upon the anvil of the future he would forge upon their bones.

He wondered if Sint knew he was here, knew that he had come. Her greatest mistake was not making sure he was dead. Perhaps his life was to haunt her for the rest of her’s.


	8. In the Valley of the Dark Lord

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The duo leave Giant's Landing in silence.

Sint had never been to the range of mountains known as “Stonetalon”. War took her many places, but never once did it deem it necessary for her to tread within these lands. An odd thought, considering that not so long ago, it was a massive warzone between the Kaldorei and the Horde. If there was any place she’d like to be, it’d be fighting by the side of that ancient people, so scorned by history. The little she had heard of these mountains was almost tragic, too. Once it was a beautiful and sacred land, sacred to both the elves and the tauren. But it had been exploited by scum and villainy, left as a nigh barren waste. The few sections of the mountains that were still green were few and far between, with the ghosts of once beautiful forests all that remained of Stonetalon’s past. Derelict fortresses dotted the war scarred landscape, the machines of siege and destruction left scuttled in sand and ash. The wounds of the War of Thorns were felt across it, as the remains of Teldrassil blanketed the mountains just as they did Darkshore and Ashenvale. 

Aranor lead her through an old sentinel’s trail, through the northern edge of the region. The sky, heavy and dark due to the sins of the War of Thorns, helped little in allowing Sint to see the land below them. No signs of activity, but perhaps that was only due to the darkness hiding them, as sunlight grew weaker and weaker the more they moved into Stonetalon. The closer to the Black Moon that hung over Darkshore, the harder it became for Azeroth’s star to shine. To say the least, the atmosphere was heavy. It weighed down this small party of two, leaving a gulf of silence between them as they marched. A silence that she was not too keen on leaving alive. So she spoke, hoping to somewhat lighten the mood. She was close enough to Aranor to speak normally, “What are your thoughts on the Silver Battalion?”

He was caught off guard with the sudden question, as he slowed a bit in his march to think. Not too long after he slowed, however, he responded, “I think of them well. At first, I was worried that I wasn’t going to get along with ‘em. That it’d be hard to work with ‘em.” He shook his head, “Nay. They’re good company, those elves.”

“Truly? I’d heard that many of the Kaldorei had been taken by rage and despair at the destruction of their Crown.” Sint said a portion of the common translation of Teldrassil, being ‘The Crown of the Earth’. Perhaps the name of the World Tree would inspire bad omens in the wind, something Sint well and truly wanted to avoid. She’d seen enough spirits get riled up by the smallest things… A bonfire of life itself was certainly inhabited by a plethora of lost souls. 

“Many have, don’t get me wrong. Not everyone in the Battalion has their minds straightened out.” He nervously scratched the side of his face, “It’s something I’m still not used to. But, ehh… The people in charge have their goals in line. Maybe it’s only Tarro, and the others are just bouncing off of her heart.”

Sint jogged a little to catch up with Aranor, the ranger’s longer strides often inadvertently making him keep ahead of her. Next to him, she smiled, “You think your captain has charisma strong enough to carry the weight of an army?” Aranor looked away, somewhat bashful, leaving Sint with a strong impression, “Though you say nothing in response, you’ve answered well enough. You’ve been in good hands.”

Aranor stopped, pulling a spyglass from his belt, checking a natural bridge up ahead. He laughed, “And let me be the first to say it, my lady.” His words were honest, yet still forced somewhat, “We’ve been holding out hope that you’d come here.”

“You knew I’d come?” Sint put her hands on her hips, shaking her head, “That’s hard to believe. Who’d hold out hope for me?”

“Early on in the Battalion’s skirmishes, things looked promising. The Horde seemed to be brittle on the fringes, fragile enough to stomp out with enough finesse.” Aranor clicked the spyglass shut, carefully putting it back into place, “But as the days went on, resources dwindling, and the end of the fighting in the Fourth War…Well, it's safe to say we started to hope for help. At first we thought we might see aid from the Kaldorei in Darkshore, but there was only a small trickle of defectors and freedom fighters that we saw coming in. Nothing substantial enough to handle the issues we had been starting to face. The issues being your Black Legion, though we didn’t know that yet. That and with our supply lines now obviously in shambles due to the dark presence wiping out the few allied cities hidden through Kalimdor… you get the picture.” The ranger waved for Sint to follow him, picking up the pace again, “We didn’t think the Alliance was going to help. We didn’t have any friends out here. So who better to hold out hope on than the woman who defied the King and his Divine Will?”

“I just did the right thing, Aranor. There were a lot of mistakes in the Fourth War, and the one the King was about to ask me to make would’ve cost us a lot more than land, lives, or time.” Sint closed her eyes, a deep frown growing on her face, “It would’ve cost us everything.”

“What happened?” There was an eagerness in the ranger’s voice. He was honestly excited to hear what drove Sint to defy the orders of the King, what brought her to her current legendary status. Like many, Aranor hoped for something outstanding. He hoped that some godlike prophecy fell upon Sint’s lap, something that drove her to stand stronger than the Alliance ever could. He hoped that Sint did more than defeat something big, he hoped that she’d reveal something to him that would define his and mankind’s future. The words she spoke were not the golden truth the ranger so wished for, instead being…

“I went alone into the unknown, and came out knowing that I had committed one of the greatest crimes in human history.” This revelation came as they stepped on the bridge, a silence falling between the two.

Aranor’s back was turned to Sint, the man’s form growing rigid, “What do you mean?”

“We’re mortals playing with the tools of the divine, Ranger. The Gods have played their games with us for untold years, their power just too great for any of us to contest. And while many frown upon this, they made us who we are. They made us, everything we stand on, and everything we stand for.” Aranor turned, seeing Sint was getting somewhat passionate about this, “And you know what I did, Aranor? I killed one of them, and watched what it did to the things they created and empowered. I saw the spark of hope fade in the eyes of hundreds, as I watched their home crumble into nothing.”

“...What?!” Ranger Aranor’s expression was hard to read, but his body grew even more tense. There were few words for the man to spare, his mouth hanging agape, little more than croaks escaping it. Words were hard to find when the unbelievable is brought before you, so nearly nonchalantly. No room existed for Sint to lie, but there must’ve been a mistake. To kill the divine was an impossibility by mortal hands. Always had it been the intervention of other higher powers or by use of the tools the gods left behind did mortals find strength to face against corrupted divinity, for even their greatest triumph, the defeat of one of the Makers in the very heart of the Burning Legion, had been bolstered by the uncorrupted Titans. But she stood there, holding firm, not a hint that she was lying crossing her face. He found his words in time, “To kill a God, ‘tis impossible alone.”

“Explain his death, Ranger.” Sint lifted her sword, its gleam now much more obvious to the ranger, “Explain how we both entered that field, and I was the only one to leave alive.”

He hesitated to respond, but he knew all the same that whatever he said wasn’t what he believed, “...A Godkiller, then? Know that this doesn’t reduce you in my eyes, my Lady. There is a point where men cannot stand aside anymore, and must judge divinity with their steel. We all knew you fought something beyond the Cult and the Black Legion, something obscured by the fog of war. I never knew that the Cult’s master was real and moving against you, a deity conspiring to war against mortals.”

“Whatever your belief is, Ranger, I live with the fact I slaughtered the lifeline of thousands because he threatened the people I loved. I killed him because he would’ve taken everything from me, a thing I was not willing to accept. Whether or not he would’ve spared the rest of Azeroth didn’t matter to me when I made my choice to butcher him.” She jabbed a finger towards the corrupted landscape of Stonetalon, “Is this the world he envisioned, or is this the world I created? Did my deeds, as the Shadow of War, create this?”

Aranor put his hands on Sint’s shoulders, a move that shocked the smaller warrior. She jolted back, Aranor’s words calming her just enough, “You cannot know that. And even if you could, you would never find peace in the answer. Find peace in your own answer, in the battle you won. I trust that you made the right choice, because I and so many others believe in you as a person.” His hands grew tighter around her shoulders, his expression and tone pleading with Sint now, “You are a hero. Even if you don’t agree with me, it is not your choice to make. We trust in you as the hero you’ve shown yourself to be, and you must continue to be that same hero. We need that. We need you.”

A hero. Sint had never been called a hero. In all of her days she only remembered being called an enemy, or an obstacle. She was never trusted, she was always opposition. Struggle was the name she embodied, her path lined with the very essence of hostility. That is why she clutched to the name ‘Shadow of War’. For if she was to accept her way of living, to accept that none would ever look at her with full trust or respect, she had to accept the role of being the shadow cast by conflict. Her life was the Shadow of War, nary a speck of hope shining within that mess. But here, a man she hardly knew was pleading with her to believe in him, pleading for her to accept her position as a hero. Shattering her worldview wasn’t easy, before it took the very power of the God she killed to break what she believed, but a normal man of fairly normal circumstance had that same effect. No magic, no higher understanding, just faith. Aranor could not claim to know Sint, to know what she’s been through, but he can claim that he cares about her. Never once did he meet her before this mission began, but his devotion toward her is something that isn’t built out of a true relationship. She had spent so much time as the adversary, as the enemy, and now… She was the hero.

“I don’t know what to say…” Her voice was low, but not mired with the typical serious tones she carried. It was a human’s voice, not the voice of some demigod of war, just the voice of a homesick girl. 

“There’s nothing to be said.” Aranor takes his hands back, “Sorry for thrusting this on you, so suddenly.”

“...No, thank you.” She looked down, gripping her arm, “I’m not the easiest person to work with. I’m starting to realize why.” She laughs, genuinely, a rare thing, “For years I’ve been alone. But you opened my eyes, just now. I’m not alone in this. The people fighting with me aren’t just here for themselves.”

“I can’t say that everyone in the Battalion is as dedicated to the cause as me and my people, Lady, but I can say with certainty that the heart and soul of this team believes in it.” A broad smile breaks out across the ranger’s face, his typically forlorn face now marked by a truly happy look, “And that is all that matters. Tarro believes in her Battalion, most of her people believe in her. Her hope’s been dwindling, and your arrival might save her.”

The end of the bridge was clouded by a murky fog, a similar fog that fell over much of Stonetalon. Perhaps it was fitting, as Sint had just reached her own bridge, the end of it clouded in uncertainty. This was the last road to the goal she’d been fighting for, for so long. The goal of learning who she really was. The long and winding path had been brimming with adversity, smiles made of daggers, kind gestures made of poison. Betrayal, pain, and death were the only absolutes on her journey, but the journey had reached its end. The end, obscured by fog and shadow, was not yet seen. It had yet to be decided. The metaphor became much more real as Aranor turned, walking forward, only to see that something stirred within the fog. Indeed, as the ranger moved closer, the fog seemed to flow easily onto the bridge. Like a fountain, sickly air poured to oppose their path. 

And then, a pair of bright blue eyes appeared within it, a massive figure carrying itself through the shadow. Sint recognized this power, for it was the very same power that she battled against in the War Camp. It was not a subtle chill, however, like the touch of the Scourge. It was an overwhelming stench of despair, the imminent demise of all things born in the form of a giant. Through the mist the juggernaut carried itself, a deep and horrific laugh born from within it. A man’s voice, presumably. There was a smug authority carried within the tone of this laugh, as the figure tread to the edge of the fog, still far enough to remain mostly obscured. What she could see was harsh metal armor, a great blade held in the mighty specter’s hand, a helm that doubled as a crown. A sight that reminded her of the stories she had heard of the Lich King, but this one clearly was not the same. There were subtle differences that told her that this giant could not be of the Scourge, even though his eyes were the same blue that the death knights had. She saw gaps between his armor, where perhaps flesh and bone should be, or at least chainmail or protective gear. But with this one? There was nothing beneath the metal. This leviathan was purely metal and soul, bound together in an unholy harmony. So then he spoke, a voice that Sint had a bad feeling about hearing again.

“The Shadow of War graces my realm, what an honor.” The voice of the Dark Lord boomed from the shadow, terrifying the ranger that stood close to him. Aranor retreated to Sint’s side, his bow knocked and pointed towards the goliath. Blackfist kept still at the edge of the bridge, “I hoped you’d come. And look! My wish came true, you came to me and I did not need to come for you.”

“I should be surprised to hear your voice, Blackfist.” Sint swaggered forward, Rebellion swung over her shoulder, “But I’m not. Seeing the Black Legion again made it obvious you came back, but my question is… Why? You should’ve stayed dead, there’s nothing to gain here. I’m a lot stronger than when I beat you in the Ghostlands.”

“That is good. I would so hate to face you at your strength then, for then there’d be no fun in taking my revenge.” The Dark Lord stepped forward, lifting his sword up so that he could hold it in both hands, “You killed me, destroyed my every plan. My schemes were thwarted, my armies crushed, and I wasn’t even your focus. There was something else, something that was using me to weaken you. Do you know how much that hurt me? I am a dead creature with no concept of physical pain, but the agony I felt when learning I was simply a pawn in another Dark Lord’s game, it was immeasurable. Not only was my greatest adversary seeing me as nothing but an obstacle, but there was someone using me.”

“Such is the way of the forces of evil, Blackfist. You spend so much time learning to be cruel and manipulative, you see even your allies as targets for such games. There’s no unity within your crowd, they all play the same games you do. And some of them are better at it.” She smirked, “Face it, you got outplayed.”

“So I did. There’s no shame in admitting that now, in my position.” He slowly approached, his heavy footfalls shaking the stone beneath Sint as he did, “I am a master in these lands. A master both to the legions of darkness and to death itself. Thrice have I died and thrice have I arisen, death only bringing me further and further into power. My first death gave me shame, my second death gave me power, and my third death gave me the world. There will be no fourth, for I have become Death. And I have come to claim my prize.”

“What prize could you hope to collect, Xagroth?” Sint pulled Rebellion from her shoulder, pointing it the orcish Dark Lord’s way, “You will lo-.” Her words were caught in her throat, Rebellion falling from her hand. Sint dropped to her knees, clutching her head, choking on the air.

“You’ll find out very soon.” And like that, the Dark Lord vanished back into the fog, leaving Aranor completely befuddled at what the hell was going on.

He looked down, to Sint, who was still in the throws of some sort of attack. Blood flowed freely from her nose, as her eyes grew increasingly bloodshot. For a moment the ranger swore he saw steam blowing from her ears, but it was possible that he was imagining things. After a few moments, Sint fell back, a painful sigh rattling from her body. The golden energy that he saw her use now fiercely glowed around her head. Aranor reached out, “Lady Dagon, what the hell was that?”

Sint didn’t respond quickly, rocking back and forth on the ground, groaning. The ranger approached, hoisting her into his lap, so he could keep her still. The man brushed Sint’s wild hair from her face, looking to see that she was in great pain. But she was managing to push back, at least her power was, as he could see that her breathing had begun to become subdued. Although concerned, Aranor was glad to see whatever just happened didn’t put Sint completely out of commission. She drew a hand over her face, breath heavy, sweat freely running down her face. The ranger’s job didn’t last long, as Sint’s hair fell back across her face. This was the most out of sorts he’d seen her yet. Finally she broke the silence, “...Confirmed a theory, at least.”

“What?” Aranor found no answer in that statement.

“Heard him speak before.” She coughed, “Orcish, but wrong. He’s made a magic language…”

“And his name is a spell.” Aranor rubbed his scruffy ginger beard, “That’s an interesting defense.”

“I feel like,” Sint said, propping herself up on her elbow, “That if I wasn’t as well defended as I am, that that spell could’ve split my head open.” Lowering the hand across her face, only to grunt as even the dimly lit landscape was still too bright, “I’m fine with a migraine, at the very least. Dying for saying that stupid orc’s name would not be the way I want to die. No, my death would preferably be in the arms of my wife, as we’re both old and happy.”

“Ah, that’s an ideal way to go.” The ranger mused, “Not many get the chance to get a happy ending. A lot of us don’t deserve one.”

Sint wiped some of the blood from her face, “That’s twice Blackfist has given me a cataclysmic nose injury. I swear he’s trying to make me lose my sense of smell, and I’m not sure if that’s a mercy or not. The fact he uses so much death as a weapon, the stench is going to get pretty bad.”

“If he was nice enough to blow your sense of smell, maybe he’d be nice enough to surrender before this gets worse.” Aranor helps Sint get back to her feet, letting her hang her arm over his back, “Heh, who am I kidding. Things are already bad enough.”

“There’s no mercy in that metal shell. I say we give him that same kindness.” She raises her fist, “Death.”

“A quick death, I hope. I’m not a jailor or a torturer.” He helps her across the bridge, making sure to match her smaller strides, “Nor do I claim you to be. An enemy like this, though, draws the worst from within us. Allow me to allay this dark topic, and focus on bringing you to the Battalion camp. We’re not far, this bridge marks the last step of enemy territory. From here on out, the elite shall be watching us, their eyes the only arrows knocked.” 

The Valley of the Dark Lord ended here, breaking way to the land of the Goddess’ Chosen.


	9. Shadowy Roads

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick interlude! Though Sint is the main protagonist, there are other sides to this tale. With this, we pick up in the aftermath of a seemingly disastrous mission between the Nightborne Mercenary Ludrasa Shieza and the Enigmatic Mag'har Ora-Ur. They've been brought here by the hands of a Master of Glass, and as he sees fit, they're fated for an important role in the tale of Conquest's Downfall.

A job was a job, and the road was still long. Remaining in Azshara for too long would make the trail run cold and though Ludrasa felt horrible for Ora… They both needed this. The job in Azshara wasn’t worth it, both because she failed to fulfill the request of her biggest employer, and because she managed to nearly get a good friend killed. Cleaning up some ruins for a bunch of strange environmentalist goblins is one thing, but hunting down a rare and frightened Void monstrosity in an extremely off-putting cavern is another. And that thing took a lot from them, but mostly Ora. It took some pride from Ludrasa, but it took a good chunk of Ora’s good arm off. Both the pain of getting melted by the void-toxin of a mael’s stringer and the pain of getting her arm amputated without anything to numb it had left the orc in a haze for the few days they stayed in the port. Time that Ludrasa spent pacing. 

Ludrasa woke up unreasonably early, as she always did, and looked up to see that Ora finally managed to sleep through a night. The pain in what remained of her arm had been intense, and only now did it finally seem to be dulling. That or Ora-Ur had gotten used to the agony, blind to it. Either way, this gave Ludrasa time to see a few things through before she tried to persuade Ora to leave. Dressed and ready to face her new employer, she made her way down the stairs to face a mostly empty tavern. A few early birds were scattered through the room, but they stayed on their end of the room. None of them, consciously or not, made the choice to sit anywhere near the man Ludrasa needed to speak to. Sitting at the table at the back of the room, now lit by candlelight, Demo O’Gorgo waited for her. She’d known him for a small amount of time, meeting in Orgrimmar a few days prior. It seemed to be a simple meeting, a forgettable thing, but he had proven that it was by no chance that they had met.

Not only did he know what Ludrasa and Ora faced, he knew both of them fairly well. Somehow he even knew that Ora-Ur was there, even though her presence was by sheer chance. O’Gorgo was something more than human. Something that was playing his cards very well, as he had easily convinced Ludrasa to accept doing some work for him. It wasn’t by chance that he reappeared the day she planned to leave, either. In front of him were two pieces of paper, one much more worn than the other. The worn parchment was carefully removed from some sort of notice board, at least so it appeared due to the holes where nails used to hold the paper up. She hadn’t the faintest clue what the worn notice was, but she did have a good idea what the cleaner page was. He promised her a written contract, after all. Approaching the table, what remained of Ludrasa’s vision could see that O’Gorgo had changed shape once more. Where he was a man when they spoke days prior, he had returned to being a Forsaken. Not a rotten zombie, by any means, more a Forsaken akin to Blightcaller. A pristine corpse with few signs of death, though to Ludrasa, she knew it was a mere illusion. An illusion she couldn’t see through, but an illusion nonetheless.

His hand gestured for Ludrasa to sit, his trademark smile blooming across his face, “I promised you proof of employment. Here it is.” He picked the clean page up, handing it over to Ludrasa. Immediately it became clear that O’Gorgo was still trying to stay on her good side, as the page was written in bold enough text for her to easily be able to read it. There was even texturing to the words, meaning she could run her fingers over the ones that still might have been hard to read. All it read was ‘I require someone to deal with Aman Del’Quren’s troublesome work. He has been an annoyance and requires to face his timely demise. With his death, I shall reward the successful hunter of the Last Del’Quren Son with something born of their wildest wishes.’

“Simple, to the point. And now, you’re bound to your word.” Ludrasa sneered, “I’ve done enough with tricky sorts like you to know that your spoken word isn’t good enough.”

“It’s a fair play, Miss Shieza. I wouldn’t trust me to keep to my word, either.” Ludrasa stood to leave, but O’Gorgo lifted a hand up to ask her to stay. Curiously, she sat back down and watched him pick up the more worn parchment, “And now that you’re taking my contract, I felt I would do you a favor and find another job befitting of your talent. You see, there is another reason I have you looking for Del’Quren.”

Ludrasa’s eye twitched, “Another reason?” A fist slammed into the table, “ANOTHER REASON?!”

“Yes! I apologize for not being forthcoming in our first conversation, but trust me in the fact that I did not originally plan on telling you this.” O’Gorgo’s voice was pleasant, his expression unphased by Ludrasa’s outburst, “You see, Del’Quren has an employer, like most of us do.”

She rubbed her hand while she listened, “He has a boss. That’s not shockin’. I mean, why else would he be runnin’ around and summonin’ Void things? He’s a cultist.”

“Not exactly, but you have the right idea.” O’Gorgo cleared his throat, reading directly from the parchment he held, “To all those who seek adventure or to safeguard the Horde, I beseech your attention and help. With the chaos of this war and the arrival of unsavory groups, there’s been little time to focus on the heart of the Horde. When I came to this land, I was shocked by how injured your heartland was. What I was even more shocked by was the darkness that hid within it. The full details of my mission will be explained on arrival, trust that your award will be great for it comes directly from the Queen of Zandalar.” He looked up to Ludrasa, “Signed by Warguard Ko’hea.”

“Ko’hea, huh?” Ludrasa rolled her jaw, “What a coincidence…” The venom was dripping from her voice, “I don’t like how this all lines up, O’Gorgo.”

“You don’t have to like it, Miss Sheiza.” He pointed to the contract, “The map leads to Stonetalon, which you will be going to. To achieve what I ask of you, you must aid Ko’hea the Vigilant.”

“Yeah, yeah… I get it.” She dismissively waved her hands at him, “As much as I hate that you’re leading me on, the rewards from this are too much to leave alone. Anyhow, I owe it to Ora now. Payment from the crown of Zandalar? She’ll never have to worry about livin’ in rags again.”  
“I’m glad you could be convinced, Miss Sheiza.” He stood, his smile widened, “I have a feeling this will be an unforgettable adventure.”

Ludrasa blinked and the enigmatic Man of Glass was gone, naught more than a whisper in the shadows. It was infuriating to her that she could not sense any magic when he vanished like that, that she could not sense where he came or went. In her trade, everything needed an explanation. Everything could be boiled down into a science or magic that was easily tracked by individuals like herself, well. Near everything, at least. The times that something appeared that she nor her colleagues could explain were sparse and quickly taken care of. Something told her that her new employer would be something far more… relentless than the ones before. Even if the next time she was to meet Demo O’Gorgo was her last, she knew that others would either have the fortune or misfortune to cross his path. With a sour taste in her mouth, she reconciled with that unfortunate truth and headed back to Ora-Ur.

The patronage of the inn were looking right at her as she moved up the creaky stairs, likely questioning the whole reason she even came down the stairs. She spoke to someone who did not exist and left without another word. The elf made a mental note to never come back to this place, as she knew she was being labeled a madman by the people left in town. Perhaps they could chalk up her strange mannerisms to her battle with a hideous monstrosity from the Void, which could easily forgive the peculiarities of her visit. Whatever they thought, it was not good for business. The door to Ora and Ludra’s shared room then opened, not by Ludrasa’s doing, but by Ora-Ur. 

Though her old armor had been ripped to shreds by the circumstances of their job, she’d spent the past few days repairing it or acquiring new pieces. It was still hard for Ludrasa to look at the stump of Ora’s right arm, but the orc herself had already appeared to have moved past it. The younger races always astonished Ludrasa with how quickly they were able to forget and forgive, to keep pushing onwards. Their lives were too short to hold onto things, she figured. Ora looked into her eye, “I’m ready to go.”

“And here I thought I had to convince you to leave.” Ludrasa snorted, “Lucky me, huh?”

“Sounds like that isn’t the first coincidence you’ve heard today.” Ora shook her head, “Not the last, I’m feeling. What’s the paper?”

“Do you want the good news, or bad news?” Ludrasa smirked, the paper still held in hand.

“Just speak.” The orc was not playing Ludrasa’s games today.

She tapped Ora on the shoulder, having walked past her, “Good news first, then. Got us another job, that luckily and coincidentally coincides with the one we already have.” The orc flinched, clearly not expecting another job so soon, “And, it pays extremely well.”

“The bad news?” She was quiet, thinking about what Ludrasa already said.

“It’s a big pile of coincidences. You remember Ko’hea?” The nightborne handed the page over to Ora, who then held the contract up to read it.

A slow nod gave Ludra her answer, “And the Prelate gives little information about the threat she faces. The little she says is grave enough, considering what we know of her. First Alterac and now…” Ora flipped the paper around to see the map printed on the back, “Stonetalon.”

“We’re goin’ to Stonetalon.” Ludra watched Ora’s face twist in confusion, “And before you ask, our employer confirmed that Aman is in Stonetalon. Unfortunately, he’s not the target of the contract you’re holdin’.”

“I see.” Ora handed it back to her, “So, you believe O’Gorgo? Or are we just being sent to knock out another target on a false premise?”

Ludra shrugged, “I can’t really say. But I don’t think O’Gorgo is lying to us, exactly. I think he’s leading us on, for sure, but he’s not lying.”

“I’ll trust your word, then.” Ora-Ur let a frown cross her face, a look that told Ludra that she wasn’t exactly keen on this idea, “But, if it does turn out to be a ruse… We’re going to take him out, right?”

“Of course not.” Ludrasa treated this like it should have been obvious, which forced Ora’s frown to deepen, “In my line of work, that you’re now in, we don’t turn on employers even if they’re idiot liars. People like O’Gorgo have connections, resources, and people. Even if we realized we’d been scammed, he’s still payin’. He’ll still have more work for us.”

“And turning against him would just get us killed, or ruin your reputation.” Ora-Ur grunted, “Okay. I get it. I don’t like it, but I get it.”

“Good! Saves us from an argument I’d win.” Ludra walked into their shared room, “I’m gonna get my things together and we’ll hit the road. The sooner we meet with Ko’hea the better.”

\----------------------

It didn’t take much time to collect the things they’d brought, as Ludra packed light and Ora didn’t seem to pack at all. They said goodbye to Shockfuse’s Landing, even saying goodbye to the Mayor on their way out. Sarble had been kind enough after Ludrasa finished her job, but they both knew her goodwill only could go so far. If Ludra and Ora were to remain in town, they’d likely have needed to change quite a lot about the way they lived, and that’s just not in the cards for either of them. Ora-Ur was stubborn, and Ludrasa was an elf. To expect either of them to change just to pay rent in a town they didn’t like, well… It was a stretch to believe. Unfortunately, there was no easy way to really get to Stonetalon at this stage of the war. The forests were solidly impossibly dangerous for two travelers to go in, and all the roads were either blown apart or contested. Luckily for the both of them, Ludra had a few favors left in Orgrimmar. She just had to get them there.

“Alright, Ora. I need you to throw this beacon as hard as you can into Bilgewater Harbor.” Ludrasa pointed out to the edge of the Harbor’s docks, “To get where we need to go, that’s our first stop.”

“Why don’t we just charter a boat?” Ora narrowed her eyes, the orc turned Ludra’s beacon away, “Not everything needs to be magical.”

“Boats cost money; anyhow, you need to get over your aversion to my magic.” The elf flicks some arcane energy into the beacon, “You use plenty of your own, so you aren’t allowed to get mad about mine. Mine is good transportation, after all.”

Ora-Ur crossed her arms, “If your magic is so good, why don’t you just open a portal to Stonetalon? It’d save us a lot of time.”

“Rule one of the school of arcane. Don’t just open portals willy-nilly.” Ludra scratched her head, a flush of embarrassment crossing her face, “Also, Rule Two… don’t forget how to open portals. I’ve been out of school for a few hundred years, and it’s been about the same amount of time since then since I’ve actually opened a portal. See, nobody was allowed to leave the bubble in Suramar until the Legion took over, and I got lazy.”

“Well, at least you admit it.” Ora-Ur pulled her arm back and hurled the small beacon as hard as she could. Even if she had the best throwing arm in the world, she’d’ve never made the distance. That’s no issue for a person with shamanic powers, however. With a burst of wind, the small item was pushed out of sight.

“Keep it up. I don’t want some sea critter to jump up and eat it.” Ludra lifts the other beacon, “After all, I don’t want to teleport into the middle of the bay with my hand in a mouth of some bass.”

“I know what I’m doing, Ludrasa. Shut up and let me focus.” Ora lifted her hands upwards, as a distant spout of water hopefully shot the small arcane beacon to where they needed it to go.

“Rude! Character growth!” Ludrasa screamed out like a small child, “Wow!”

“What’s gotten into you?” Ora couldn’t be any more confused by her partner.

The elf sneered at Ora, “Nothin’. HEY! Look over there!” Ludrasa pointed to the sea, Ora-Ur just keeping her eyes on the elf. She was noticeably disappointed that Ora didn’t fall for that, “Party-pooper.” She put her hand on Ora’s shoulder, and they both teleported to where the other beacon had landed. Luckily enough, it was still midair when Ludrasa teleported them over, allowing them to easily land without needing to pull themselves out of the mud. A few goblins scattered when they saw two larger bodies appear mid-air, one shouting about needing a license to do that. The two cared little to hear the complaints of the denizens of the harbor and walked to a rickety building at the edge of the settlement. 

Ora did not ask what exactly was held within the building, for Ludrasa walked towards it with purpose. Sometimes it was better to let an expert lead on. Something told Ora that Ludrasa had a knack for becoming familiar with run-down buildings that disguised their true purpose, as she watched the Nightborne knock in specific places on the door, the door swung wide open when she finished knocking. Though they didn’t pay Ora much attention, Ora paid quite a bit of attention back to them. Never had she ever been familiar with the seedy underbelly of Azeroth, but she had been quite familiar with the underbelly of Outland. Her homeworld was much quieter than Azeroth, a smaller population and much more vast wastelands marked the cause of such quiet. The underbelly worked as well as it did on Outland because of the Ethereals, because of the weakness of any central government that was left in the ruins of Draenor. Perhaps Draenor’s ‘criminal’ aspect was the only thing keeping it alive, supplies actually able to flow to places that needed them in thanks to Nexus Merchants and a lack of a force that actively wanted to stop them.

in Azeroth, things were obviously different. There were too many people in Azeroth, Ora felt, and too much war. With the world constantly changing and warring, there were so many chances for a new organization to pop up. In fact, there was a massive criminal organization that was officially a part of the Horde, being the Bilgewater Cartel. Since it was so big and prominent, it made sense that it would want to beat out its opposition. The only times Ora had encountered any official Cartel forces had been in moments where they were busting other illegitimate operations. This one reminded her of those. The same huddled figures, crouched and hidden even in the safety of their own den, seeking to shirk the law for profit. That or they had done something the Horde wasn’t willing to provide; a benefit given to the people in need, still for a pretty price. They were people the Horde were willing to forget, it felt, as long as the Cartel was not involved.

There was much to profit from in the Underbelly of Azeroth, and Ora was a part of it now. Ludrasa was a mercenary, sure, but Ora had seen her sell dangerous relics to shady individuals ever since they met. Hell, Ludrasa still had the Mael’s stinger. There was no doubt in her head that they were going to meet with Ludrasa’s main employer, a man who dealt in things that were below the supervision of the law. The orc didn’t feel comfortable in this environment, but she was new to it. Perhaps Ludrasa would show her the way, once she was done bartering in a language she didn’t understand with a strange almost goblinoid creature near a burnt out circle in the ground. The fishy individual accepted whatever the Violet Panther said, taking her coin eagerly, and snapped his scaly fingers. A green portal ripped open, unstable, but quick.

“I imagine you want me to go through that.” Ora shouted over the whirling of the portal.

The elf turned her head, a devilish grin on her fine features, “Course I do! Fel is quick and cheap these days, and it gets us right to where we need to go. If you’re icky about it because you’re uncorrupted-”

“No, that’s fine.” Ora laughed, “I’ve passed through the Dark Portal more than once in my lifetime, y’know, when it was still open.”

“Maybe that’s where you got the extra two tusks from, Ora-Ur.” Ludrasa poked one of the aforementioned tusks, things that marked Ora as not as uncorrupted as her people’s title implied.

Ora answered Ludra by pushing her through the portal, shaking her head as she followed suit. It was incredibly lucky that the gateway was actually as stable as it was, for the operation Ludra pulled them into didn’t inspire much faith in her. A ramshackle storefront in the face of the biggest criminal empire in Azeroth? It had to be a bit untrustworthy to be able to stay open in spite of its location, but they got a nice portal for cheap. She was going to have to ask Ludrasa about how she found these places when she got the chance, but she found herself landing in another establishment she did not recognize. It was much cleaner than the portal den they just left, almost shaped like a store. There were shelves of odd artifacts and glowing jars, biting plants and mummified corpses. From the blinking eyes of Voidborne to the scowls of still living undead, the place was almost exactly what Ora-Ur imagined when she thought about a “black market”. 

“Wait here, eh? I’ll go speak to the manager.” Ludra left the mael’s stinger with Ora, almost as if she forgot that she was trying to keep Ora’s mind off of her crippling injury. Not that it bothered Ora much to think about her missing right hand, it just struck her as funny. For someone as long lived and supposedly wise as Ludrasa, she tended to be awfully scatterbrained about most things. That or she was just extremely erratic and hard to follow. 

Either way, Ora was left alone for a few moments. She didn’t count the time, as there was no sun above her to see. They were far enough below ground that Ora couldn’t even feel the sun’s warmth on the stone to make a good estimate of how long she waited. It couldn’t have been that long, as Ora only just started to grow bored as Ludra appeared from beyond the rows of shelves with a beaming smile across her face. Then the “manager” showed up. Ora expected an elderly warlock or an old decrepit undead, not…

A very well-dressed elderly human. Brown hair that was mostly giving way to gray, two intelligent and cunning split blue and brown eyes, and a well-trimmed mustache marked him as a hard to forget fellow. He snapped a pair of green goggles over his eyes as he looked to the stinger in Ora’s hand, “Would you look at that! Though you didn’t get to test the vessel like I WANTED, you brought me back something that tells me I should forgive you!”

Ora held it up, uncertain, “Uh, hello. Nice to uh, meet you?”

“And a fine mag’har specimen! Oh, interesting tusks and facial structure. How strange you aren’t red, my dear!” The man circled Ora, almost making her dizzy.

“Faust, she’s a friend. Give her a break.” Ludrasa shook her head, “We’re here on more business.”

“More business?!” This ‘Faust’ stopped circling Ora like a hawk, “How fun! Am I included?”

“Of course, of course. If my intuition is right, there’ll be plenty of more things to peddle down in the Gut.” Ludra crossed her arms, “That is, if the Gut’ll accept another mercenary in its supplier list.”

“Viola, Viola! You can’t honestly expect me to refuse another able pair of- Err… Another able hand. Especially one that you’re fond of!” Faust snatched the stinger from Ora’s outstretched hand, “So, why have you taken a gate here? Is the job in Orgrimmar?”

“No, see, we came for a pass to our destination. Have you heard the rumors comin’ outta Stonetalon?” Ludrasa handed Faust her contract without much hesitation. Ora didn’t see that coming, as she’d expect Ludra to want to keep such a lucrative job quiet. 

The man read through the page, “Aye, I’ve had a few men take the job from this Warguard. As well as a few buyers from an unnamed source in the mountains.” He hummed, “If it’s got Zandalar worried, worried about something that isn’t gold and in their own homeland, it’s bound to be juicy. Especially considering our track record with Ko’hea.”

“Yup. She got us involved in the War of Heroes, my gut’s tellin’ me that this’ll be another war like that one.” The elf took the paper back from Faust, “Too many things are linin’ up for me to miss it, at the very least.”

She didn’t mention Demo O’Gorgo to Faust. What an odd thing to omit from such a conversation, unless Ludra was hiding her true job from her trusted friend. Trust was not so easily won in this world, Ora-Ur figured, even between friends. At the end of their dusty trail had a new road been found, one of dusk and blood. Ora smelled the trouble in the air, and something about it told her she needed to face it. It was not in her nature to run away from her obligations, especially not after she finally found the truth in her mission in Azeroth.

In secrets and mystery, Ora-Ur could not lose sight of her promise to Garadar. Kalandrios’ mission to find an answer to save her home was right ahead of her, she just needed to keep chasing it. The Fist of the Storming Star was not about to run, even if the dusk she was dwelling in scared her.


	10. Ashen Steps

The Demon’s Gut was an interesting place, to say the least. Ludrasa had grown extremely familiar with it ever since she started wandering Azeroth, but she never could forget her first visit. Ludrasa was an odd case within the Nightborne, she had long been able to go in and out of Suramar during the ten thousand years that place had remained isolated in a bubble. Her methods had been peculiar, for sure, as most Nightborne believed the world had perished outside of the protective barrier that surrounded their city. Though she was not old enough to remember the world before the Sundering, not by a long shot, her grandparents were. Stories had been told by the elders in her home about the days leading up to the downfall of the Kaldorei Empire, stories that made her deeply curious about what was beyond the veil. Adventurous to a fault, she began to explore the sewers and tunnels below Suramar, and commonly got in trouble with the Duskwatch patrollers in the underside of their world. In time, she found a way out. Freedom through a sewer tunnel, where Ludrasa fled into the world at large. Perhaps she suffered early mana-issues just as any exiled Nightborne would, but there were always ways to break such issues. Would she ever share her secret? Probably not, but it was the way she reached the rest of the world.

Wanderlust carried her to Kalimdor eventually, where she found a young Orgrimmar welcoming an odd race of elves that she’d never seen before. With the trademark illusions of home, she disguised herself as one of these “Sin’dorei” and immediately got to work. Her explorations of the Arcway and odd jobs she did to keep her family afloat had made her into a decent mercenary and a great tracker, something that she noticed Orgrimmar needed a lot of. They came to know her as the “Violet Panther”, a name that got the notice of the Demon’s Gut. Faust was a creature she’d never seen before, and though she hid her surprise well, she didn’t hide it well enough from the proprietor of the Gut. With the exotic smells and strange feeling of the entire establishment, she at least hoped that Faust would take her mild surprise as a reaction to his market, not just to him. She’d learn in time that Faust missed no detail, as he asked her what was behind the illusion she wore.

Faust was the first man to learn of the Nightborne of Suramar, and he kept that between them until it was safe for her to finally break the illusion. Faust owed quite a lot to her and she owed a lot to him, which meant they were practically invaluable to each other. This day was no exception. The human took her and Ora-Ur to the back of the Gut, regaling Ora with a few stories of the “good ol’ days”, “So, here Viola was, barely holding up her illusion as the summoner threw another crawler from the rift. In a fit of brilliance, I uncorked that bottle of mischievous slime and thrust it between her and the beastie, and the slime grew into the form of a young woman! Can you believe that? In the confusion, the critter struck the slime, and it gave Viola a single second to put a bullet between that dastard’s eyes.”

“A slimegirl, now? The last time you told this you said the slime turned into a shirtless version of you and stunned the creature with your ‘rippling majesty’.” Ludra rolled her eye as she heard Faust choke on his words, the man struggled to retort.

“Ah-heh… hah.. Right… UH.” He cleared his throat, “What she means to say is that I might embellish a few features. I’m a natural storyteller, what can I say?”

“The only accurate detail in this is that that summoner was a real pain to take down. The rest is a complete lie, including the detail that he was even there.” She looked over at her boss, “He never takes a job unless it’s to a warehouse or with an army of bodyguards.”

“I see.” Ora-Ur shook her head, her pace slowed as they approached the back of the Gut. She now walked in pace with Ludrasa instead of Faust, “It’s not kind to lie to someone you just met.”

“I said the same thing to our mutual friend, Miss Ur. Sure that may have been a decade ago, but who’s keeping track?” He stepped through some curtains, his bedazzled hand waving to them after he entered that room.

Ora eyed Ludrasa with some suspicion, “What does he mean by that?”

“In my line of work, it’s safer to lie about some things before the time is right. Consider this a lesson, eh? Keep your cards until the most effective time to play them hits. That goes for any piece of information you have.” Ludrasa took Ora’s hand, “Now, c’mon.”

Ora flushed red as the elf took her hand, but luckily, she was in Ludrasa’s formidable blindspot. The Gut’s rear end was filled with quite a few rooms, each of them with a different way leading in. A strong steel door, a rather rustic wooden door, a curtain, and then just a bare entrance. Though this meant something to the other Gut-goers, Ora-Ur had no idea what the differences meant until they finally passed through all the curtains leading in. The cloth was heavy and almost held Ora back, a rune on Ludrasa’s hand providing a bit of a barrier for the both of them as they walked through the heavy fabric. When she felt the buzz of arcane in the stone and air, Ora recognized what the cloth was for. They served as heavy magic dampeners as well as collectors, meant to hide the presence of portals in this place as well as to prevent an explosion from damaging too much of the Gut and the surrounding area. 

“Welcome to the Bowels!” Ludrasa released Ora’s hand, a gesture thrown to the rest of the fairly large chamber.

“Lady! C’mon, why must you do this to me?!” An unfamiliar voice rang out from above, “It’s the Sanctum! The Sanctum!”

A figure clambered down a set of ladders, a figure that was hard to make out in the fairly dim light of the ‘Sanctum’. A huff marked his landing, as a strange elf strode out from the dim shadows. Pale blue skin, strange lavender eyes, and off putting and almost slimy purple hair revealed that he was not in the least a normal sort, though Ora at least recognized him as a Sin’dorei. Ludra, now being called another nickname, chuckled, “Oh come on, Valentine. It’s not a big deal what I call your stinkin’ portal room.”

“It is not stinky, Lady. I take great care of my portals and this room, and you’d better start respecting that. If you don’t, I just might consider revoking your access!” He stamped his foot, a foot that Ora saw was covered in a very expensive looking boot.

Faust shouted from further in, “Is Valentine complaining about your foul language again? I swear by my lower back pain…” 

“Duh!” Ludrasa yelled back, “Find the right portal, yeh?”

“Here I thought you’d finally cleaned up your language! I’ve not heard a single curse from you this entire visit!” Faust looked over, past the portals, “If you promise to stop insulting Valentine’s very pretty and not pretentious portal room, I’ll tell you which portal you want!”

“Fiiiiiine…” She huffed, “I’m sowwy Mr. Excellency. I w-won’t ever say anythin’ bad about your stinkin’ portal room again.”

Valentine rubbed his brow, “You know, if I were not still an exiled Lord of Silvermoon, I would have had you fined for your boorish behavior. Alas, we cannot all be saints, and your skill keeps money flowing through the gut. I will let this slight slide, FOR NOW.”

“Thanks, Vally. Seeya on the flip.” Ludra beckons for Ora to follow her, a devilish smile on her face.

“Exiled Lord of Silvermoon?” Ora pondered audibly, “That would make him a traitor to the Horde, wouldn’t it?”

“The Gut doesn’t exactly care about the exact loyalties of its customers. We’re not political types, you feel me?” Ludrasa stopped as she reached Faust, who pointed down at a rune on the ground.

“Viola is right, Ora-Ur. We do not exactly have the money or patience to care about political agendas in the Demon’s Gut. After all, if I did, I wouldn’t be able to keep the land clear of monsters… Or keep a promise I made.” Faust shrugged, “Anyways, if we did become political, I’d be dead within weeks. Either a rival would finally take me out, or the Horde would kill me. Sure, I promised Thrall I’d fight horrors that the Horde didn’t have time to deal with. I promised him I’d do my best to keep the streets clean of monsters, and I’ve kept up my bargain.”

“Thrall is the reason you’re here? I suppose that makes sense, all things considered.” Ora put her only hand on her hip, “I can’t imagine any other leader of the Horde would agree to a human running a business in their city.”

“Maybe Sylvanas would’ve, considering her agreement with the Fogsail pirates… No chances, though. My agenda is simple. I pay people to kill monsters, bring me back their bodies, and find magical items. In exchange, I create stronger weapons and find more work for them, so that one day we might finally take care of all things that go bump in the dark.” He rubbed his hands together, a small spark appearing in the rune on the floor, “It’s a noble goal, albeit an impossible goal. It’s like any police or any peace corps. They fight to stop crime or war, but we’re all aware that these things can’t stop happening. We can just hope to make them rare.” A strong stomp of his boot kicked some dust into the air, a stable gateway forming from the arcane and the dust, “And getting myself involved with the politics of this world won’t do me any good. Hopefully you understand.”

Ora tightened her fist, it being lifted up in solidarity for Faust, “ I get it, human. This world’s politics do no good for anyone, especially people like us. People who don’t fit in the mold.”

“Good, then. I hope this means you’ll be a return customer and employee, Miss Ur.” He stood to the side, a gesture tossed the way of the gateway, “First, of course, that means you’ve gotta make it back from this trip in one piece. Considering what I read, you’ll have to do a bit of work to manage that.”

Ludrasa stepped forward first with her rifle drawn, “Sure you wanna come, Ora?”

The orc looked at the gate, the pain in her stump still felt. With a sigh she remarked, “Oh, why not. I’ve got a few things to work out.”

She took Ludrasa’s hand nonetheless, her hand felt nice in these rather difficult times. Ora had come very far in her journey. There was chaos in this trip and there was great pain in it as well; Ora found that those things can be negated by stability. Ludrasa was the stability she needed, even if the elf was her own eccentric bundle of odd character traits that didn’t seem to particularly fit. A social butterfly who preferred to work alone, who loved neatness and tidiness but found herself typically messy and chaotic, and enjoyed the thrill of the wilds in spite of her Highborne heritage. She reminded her more of the stories of the Kaldorei, rather than the shal’dorei. But perhaps that was the oddity of the Horde, they built themselves on the basis of being so different from the Alliance that it’d be impossible to work together, yet Ora-Ur could see the deep similarities within each group. The divide appeared to be nothing more than an excuse to her, but she didn’t make the rules in this world. She was still unfamiliar with many things about Azeroth, but her unfamiliarity with it all had begun to dim. To take that portal, however, was to accidentally thrust herself in an unfamiliar place. 

Azeroth was still an alien world to Ora-Ur, so to stand in a new location unlike the others she had traveled, it might have well been like traveling to another world. This Stonetalon felt like it was going to be more recognizable than it was, but as they passed through the gateway, Ora could only feel like she was lost. The sky was black, the ground was dead, and there were ruins scattered through the wasteland. Her bare feet could feel ash as she tread from the portal’s landing area, her nose picked up the scent of destruction in the wind. She lifted her hand into the air to feel the elemental energy of the region. This was to no avail, as the wind was distant and quiet even though it still pushed through the sky. It was more a labored gasp than the breath of the wilds. This land was sick. And it suddenly became all too familiar to Ora-Ur as she looked back to Ludrasa, who was passively observing the location. She walked up to her companion, “Did you have any idea what this would be like?”

“I had heard rumors of the conflict over here. It was usually muddied thanks to the reports of Darkshore and the skirmishes in Ashenvale, but Stonetalon’s been sick for a while. The Horde and Alliance fought pretty hard over these lands a few years back, during a time when the world was dying due to an elemental upheaval. I don’t know too many details of the fight, beyond the fact that they nearly killed these mountains.” She lifted her rifle to her cheek, her eye looked through a scope, “Stonetalon was a vibrant place, but the factions and the Cataclysm damn near killed it. Seems like nobody came back to heal these mountains, and the whole war that’s still goin’ on didn’t do it any favors.”

“But the Sun, it does not shine. The spirits are distant, fearful.” Ora bent down and took some ash from the ground, “And why is there ash? Why does this place feel like a graveyard, Ludrasa?!” 

“Didn’t you hear? The Horde tried to kill hope.” She lowered her rifle, her eye now trained on Ora’s, “Fought the Legion, Sargeras stuck Azeroth like a pig. Her blood started to flow, and it caused an arms race. Arms race that turned bloody when Sylvanas came to the home of the night elves and burned it all down.”

“No…” Ora stood back, aghast.

The nightborne pointed in the direction of the wind, “The wind has been blowing from that direction shy of a year now. The Horde willingly marched on the ancient homes of relatively peaceful people, scorchin’ nature’s bounty and tossing any hope of lastin’ peace into a bonfire the size of a mountain. That bonfire was named Teldrassil.”

“Teldrassil burned?” Ora-Ur shook her head, “Now I see why the fighting was so rough in your war.”

“Shocker. There’s another reason why I don’t work too close with the Horde. It disgusts me.” Ludrasa put a hand on Ora’s shoulder, “They say they want peace. They say they wanna survive. But they keep doin’ crap like this. They kill, they destroy, and they allow monsters like Sylvanas to rule ‘em. So many of ‘em stand back and say ‘We were forced!’ but… What sense does that make? If ya’ll want me to believe that ya’ll wanna live honorably and peaceably, maybe your next step is to end the Horde… ‘cuz it clearly ain’t workin’.” The nightborne spat into the ash, “Hell, I don’t know why my people chose to side with the Horde. Guess I never did like the majority of my kinfolk, but they’re my kin, y’know? But we traded one tyrant for another, and decided to repeat the tradition of Azshara. Just burn the things that disagree with you, ‘cuz you don’t care about anythin’ but yourself.”

Ora was at a loss for words. Ever since she came to Azeroth she had been kept far away from the conflict in Darkshore, never exactly learning what the war over there was for. Perhaps she had grown too comfortable in thinking she had Azeroth figured out, that she had begun to understand the conflict between the Alliance and Horde. It felt like the Alliance was a big powerhouse that was trying to get the Horde to capitulate to their demands, and the Horde was a scrappy underdog that had to fight hard to survive. An underdog that got other powers to feel pity, to join its side in its fight. But clearly now, that was not true. At least, not entirely. Perhaps the Alliance still sought the Horde’s end, but it wasn’t for unjustifiable reasons. The Horde had done great evils before, and Ora believed that Thrall had lead them away from the path of Gul’dan. But in this revelation, with the knowledge of the Horde’s other transgressions, she could see the shadow of Gul’dan still cast over the Horde. Thrall nearly succeeded in leading the Horde away, but in the end, there was no use. Gul’dan created a cycle. An inevitable cycle of hatred.

“Ora?” Ludra lightly slapped the side of her face, “You in there?”

The orc was knocked out of her deep thoughts, her eyes fluttered as she realized she had drifted off, “My apologies… The burning of Teldrassil forced me to reconsider what I’m doing.”

“Too little too late, Ora-Ur. You’re with the Horde now, and your only hopes are to save it from itself. See, I’m not a political type, so I can’t really do much about the Horde’s trajectory. I doubt I could do much even if I did get too involved. There’s a purpose in my work more than money and the thrill of it, you feel me? I kill these monsters so people might be spared from ‘em. A little justice in the world can’t hurt, can it?” Ludrasa’s typically sardonic smirks were replaced by a rather resolute smile this time.

“I’ve had you pinned all wrong.” Ora laughed, “I thought you to be a mercenary out for just the money… But you’ve got a code after all.”

“I’m touched, Ora. Hearin’ that from an innocent soul like yours does mean a lot in- “ She’d be cut off.

“In your line of work.” Ora interjected, “Just say thanks.”

“Thanks.” She snorted, “Hate sayin’ thanks, but it unironically fits here. Let’s cut this sappy crap off, though. Got a job to finish, remember?”

“Right, my bad.” Ora gave an uncertain look to the horizon, “Though I don’t know how deep I want to go in this one.”

“Land gives me the heebies too. Best to not think much about it.” Ludrasa looked to the map on the back of their contract, “Says we don’t have much of a walk to reach Ko’hea’s camp, but by now I have a feelin’ they’ve relocated. Gut feelin’. We best find their camp and follow their tracks, find ‘em before night hits. Light’s limited as is with all the black clouds in the sky, I ain’t gonna trust the landscape when it’s impossible to see more than five feet in front of you.”

By the time they left the gateway, it was midday. Perhaps it was enough time to track Ko’hea down, but Ora’s hopes weren’t too high. With the amount of ruins littering the landscape, she did have hopes that they’d at least be able to find cover when night fell. It was strange walking through a land that so deeply reminded her of places she’d been before. The familiarity she felt to this land was due to Shadowmoon Valley, a desolate place filled with ruins of an old war. The sky was dark in that place just as it was dark here, the roads empty and barren, the lands crawling with the scars of conflicts long since finished. The land was a land of resentment and pain, a land which was hostile to those that came to it. A land that did not wish to be bothered by the mortals that had made it so sick. Along the road they walked, Ora-Ur felt the echoes of what Stonetalon had once been. It had been a holy place once. She felt the old blessings of the elements echo through the land, the power of wild spirits atop its peaks. There was a nostalgic feeling of prayer and peace that thrummed beneath the surface of the pain of the Mountains. The land yearned to go back to when it was whole, when it was a land of purpose. When two peoples who now are hated enemies were once great friends, once peacefully coexisting. Shadowmoon knew this feeling, though perhaps its feeling was much deeper than the one Stonetalon felt now. There was a chance for Stonetalon to heal.

Ora wondered if she’d get the chance to heal this sickly land, and if Ludrasa would join her on that mission. Perhaps their journey now was to heal Stonetalon, and the Winds of Fate just had yet to make that clear. Deep within Ora-Ur’s heart she felt that there was a chance. Down the road they went, the trail being watched by both mercenaries carefully. The gutted corpses of new and old war machines littered their pathway, with mechs and steam tanks both shattered in disrepair. Glaives stuck out of stone and wooden walls, the fragments of Horde camps and the blown out husks of Kaldorei buildings found every once and a while along the road. There was much less ruined Horde machinery and buildings, Ora felt, but perhaps it was just thanks to the section of the land they walked in. Elsewhere could tell a different story, that it was a much more even battlefield. That was until they passed by a deep crater, a crater that Ludrasa tried her best to not look at. The spirits in the air were forlorn, the crater holding such negative feelings that it made Ora stop dead in her tracks.

Her breathing grew heavy, her heart sinking. Her close connection to the spiritual aspect of shamanism told her all she needed to know, Ora sunk to her knees as she looked into the depths of the crater. The depths of hatred and conquest stood right before her, “...So many innocents lost.”

“The Horde hasn’t been on good behavior for a long time, Ora.” Ludrasa knelt down next to her, “I-I… I don’t know what to tell you. That the Horde came to Stonetalon for resources? That’s what they tried to spin it as, I guess. No, what they came for was murder. The Alliance and Horde weren’t at war, but Garrosh marched on this place anyways. He killed a holy peace that had lasted for a long time, a sanctity that gave both tauren and kaldorei comfort. This crater is a testament to that.”

“What stood here?” Ora did not look up from the crater.

“... Do you really want to know?” The tone in her voice told Ora that it was probably better that she didn’t know.

“...I don’t.” Ora took a deep breath, “I don’t think I do.”

“Then I don’t think I’ll tell you. C’mon, stand up. We can’t stop at each atrocity committed, now, can we?” She laughed, albeit a bit nervously, “...Right… Eh, ok. Their camp should be just over this hill.”

Ora felt an odd presence just over the hill, but she had been feeling an odd presence the entire time they were here. Stonetalon clearly didn’t have a friendly energy to it, but the feeling she got from the presence past the hill almost felt too familiar. Not the same familiarity of Shadowmoon, but the familiarity of something she’d seen on Azeroth. Ludrasa ran up the hill, only to stop dead in her tracks as she glared down the hill. She waved for Ora to join her, “Damnit. Who knew we’d find the Alliance all the way out here?”

Two humans were studying the remains of the camp, but the odd presence Ora felt was condensed in them. No, only in one of them. There stood a man in mottled green armor, a bow and daggers being his obvious weaponry. He dwarfed the human next to him, but she seemed to hold far more power than him. Her armor was black and red, styled in such a way that it made her appear draconic. Her cloak was great and expensive, and the silver blade in her hand shined with an uncanny glow. Ora didn’t realize that she was being stared at by the woman until she caught her eyes, an intense golden glare now piercing her soul. At first the human bristled, but she observed Ora for just a moment.

She sheathed her blade, “The hell?! Ora-Ur!?” 

Who knew that they’d meet Sint Dagon, once again, in a place like this?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ora-Ur has only lived on Azeroth for around three months by the time she gets here. Most of that time's been spent communing with the elements, so the truth of the Fourth War was practically lost on her. Especially considering that by her arrival, it had just about come to a close. Poor sheltered Ora-Ur.


	11. Black and Red

Twin blades were quick to nearly cause trouble, as Aranor was a man of duty. His duty? To kill Horde. And right in front of him? Horde. Luckily, there was someone here who knew better.

“Stand down, Aranor.” Sint put her hand on the man’s chest. He wanted to protest, but he chose not to after he saw the look in Sint’s eyes. Why did it not surprise him to know that Sint was familiar with an orc? His eyes widened as he saw a pair of purple ears poke up from behind the hill, a Nightborne followed the orc closely.

He huffed, “You’re familiar with these Horde?”

“Their loyalty to the Horde isn’t something I worry about.” Sint approached the nightborne and orc with her sword low, her stance not friendly yet not hostile. With a perfect accent, her tones shifted from common to orcish, “When I came out here, I was expecting fewer mementos of my amnesiac days, but here you two are.”

The Nightborne scowled, “I was expectin’ the coincidences to stop by the time we got here. First I meet Ora on the road, then I meet this weird information broker, then he gets us a job, turns out the job takes us here because of Ko’hea, and now you’re here. The Hell’re you doin’ here?” 

Aranor walked up, cautious. He squinted at Sint, “Who are they?” He still spoke in common, in hopes these two didn’t speak a lick of it.

Much to his dismay, the relatively fearsome looking Nightborne smirked at him, her common just as good as his, “You could’ve asked us directly. I’m Ludrasa Shieza, Violet Panther of Suramar. I’m sure you’ve heard of me if you’ve been out here long enough.” The mag’har looked hopelessly lost, “And this is my companion, Ora-Ur.” She shifted into orcish, “Say hi, Ora.”

“Hello!” Ora-Ur bowed politely, her long braid of hair being marked out by Aranor as a weak point. Just in case. This Ranger trusted orcs as far as he could throw them. None of them caught him staring.

The Ranger chose to speak in orcish for the sake of breaking the language barrier, as minor as it was. If he was to keep a low profile in his disdain for Sint’s allies, he figured it was better to keep the animosity internal, “Aranor, Son of Roy. Ranger of Stromgarde.” He looked equally at them both, “Can’t say I was expecting to use a language I learned just to beat my enemy to speak to potential friends, but… My expectations for how things should go radically changed when I bumped into our mutual friend here. Speaking of, amnesiac days?” He gave a baffled glance to Sint, “What?”

“Long story, ranger. Let’s just say I spent a few months as another person because a Dark God cursed my brain.” She saw that the answer left Aranor in a state of even deeper confusion, “It’s still confusing for me, trust me. There’s still some things I don’t know about that entire situation, but part of me is lucky that I don’t.” 

“Yeah. Warrior isn’t exactly what I’d call a uh… role model.” Ludrasa scratched the back of her head, “She was a bit nuts, if you catch my meanin’.”

Aranor looked between them, “Ok, right… It’s not important. What’s important to me is what two Horde are doing out here? It’s not exactly a place I’d want to be as an orc, with all the night elves in the hills.”

Ludrasa deadpanned, “Didn’t think about that, if Imma be real with ya’. I’ve kinda been runnin’ off the belief that everybody vacated the area until I was told about Ko’hea’s people bein’ out here.”

“Ko’hea?” Sint shook her head, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Nope. Guess you weren’t wantin’ to hear that.” The Nightborne procured the contract she’d basically shown everyone at this point, “That means you weren’t lookin’ for her. Y’know that you’re standin’ on the remains of her camp?”

“I did not, no. You see, I’m here for a pretty important reason. A vital mission.” Sint stuck her sword into the dirt, both her hands now placed atop the blade’s pommel, “An old enemy of mine has resurfaced and has been murdering the remnants of humanity in the West. Like a shadowy pathogen he has washed over the land, obliterating these disparate communities.” She looked back to Aranor, “I was lucky to meet him the moment I arrived in the West. Thanks to what we’ve seen, we’ve deduced that the Horde is not to blame for this senseless slaughter.”

“That’s a first.” Ora grumbled.

Aranor’s opinion drastically increased about Ora-Ur immediately, “Aye. Beyond scaring the hell out of me and kicking my teeth in, Sint gave me confirmation that it wasn’t a pointless quest. See, the people I work with have been keepin’ track of these forgotten children of the East, mostly because they provide decent trade partners and are practically our only friends out here. Part of me was scared that Sylvanas finally spotted our refuges, or that she gave up on trying to make this war look like a real war and not an excuse to get her mass murder quota up. No, it’s not her. I don’t know if I’m happy about that, though.”

“Why not?” Ora-Ur crossed her arms, the young orc’s countenance was one that seemed just as bitter as Aranor’s, “I’m happy for you that you don’t have to bother with the madness that is the Horde.”

“I wanted a shot to take her out, if it was her.” He sighed, “But it isn’t. And it’s something possibly worse.” He looked at Sint, “But only she can really say if it is worse.”

Sint was silent for a moment, her eyes looked beyond them all, off into the darkened sky of Stonetalon. She was in some thought, for she wanted to consider all that she knew of both monsters before she gave an earnest answer. She had fought Sylvanas and Blackfist both in the past, though she truly only faced against the Banshee’s forces and edicts, not the Queen herself. She only clashed blades with Windrunner once, and that Sylvanas was a doppelganger crafted by the same Dark God that cursed her memory. Sylvanas was a cruel egomaniac that cared little for anything but her own personal gain, using and abusing each close ally to achieve more strength in death and darkness. She had caused untold ruin to already broken lands, the blood of thousands of refugees and innocents trying to flee war and devastation staining her soul. There seemed to be little rational thought behind her motivations. To Sylvanas, everything was just a stepping stone to kill more, to brutalize more. She spat on anything good and righteous, and it would be her eventual downfall. Her brilliance was wasted on someone as demented as she.

But Blackfist? Sint wasn’t certain if she could consider him Sylvanas’ tactical equal, but the orc’s power certainly outclassed Sylvanas in every form. Blackfist was the epitome of everything Gul’Dan and the Dark Horde achieved, even going so far to reach the realm of the Black Dragon allies the Horde had years before. He was a master death knight, a master warlock, a dark shaman, and a twisted fleshcrafter in one debased package. He had no qualms with allying with all things dark, his vendetta not one to keep himself as the strongest being. His vendetta was against the Light itself. At first he appeared to be only a lackey of the Banshee Queen, when they met years ago. The Black Legion was one of Sylvanas’ personal armies, after all. For him to be her simple goon would make too much sense. Alas, it was not so simple to have him be a sycophant of the Banshee. No, he was his own beast. His goals merely aligned with her’s for the time being, though now it seemed that they had finally diverged. In their greatest and last battle in Northern Lordaeron, Sint was finally able to learn Blackfist’s true vendetta. It was against the Light itself, for he believed it directly caused the downfall of his mentor and the Horde he loved. The Light spat out a defective Horde that came so close to being great, but continued to fail due to its influence.

Blackfist’s willingness to ally himself to the enemies of the Light made him something horrifying. It put him in the same class as the Burning Legion or the Void, he was an existential threat. Though Sylvanas was a great orchestrator and had caused so much suffering, Blackfist’s potential ruination had just begun. Sint spoke simply, “Blackfist.”

“By Elisande’s- I mean… Oh dear! What could that mean? You actually think your guy is worse than the harlot who caused this war to happen? The same Sylvanas who took Gilneas from you?” Ludrasa was concerned, to say the least, “Comin’ from anyone else, I’d laugh in their face. But from you?”

“What’s a Gilneas?” Ora-Ur piped up, “I’ve no notion on what that is.”

“Another atrocity on the laundry list of horrors the Horde’s committed. Gilneas was neutral, kept out of everyone’s problems. Physically built a massive wall to keep everyone out. Didn’t matter. Cataclysm hit, brought Sylvanas in. She wanted more Forsaken, more land. Instead of leaving the living alone, she chose to kill and conquer.” Aranor’s grip on his bow tightened, “If it wasn’t clear from her cleanin’ out the refugees of Lordaeron and raising them as abominations and ghouls, I’d’ve thought her misdeeds at Gilneas would’ve finally gotten the Alliance to wipe her out.”

Ora looked down, “But she lived long enough to cause this war. It sounds like both the Alliance and Horde have a lot of things to answer for, doesn’t it?”

“Took the words right out of my mouth, orc.” The Ranger moved past the others, even to the point of pushing Ludrasa out of the way, “But enough talk. I thought this camp might’ve belonged to the Blackened, but if it was just your contact’s camp, then we’ve both got problems. Your contact decided to camp right in front of the Land of the Goddess, the territory the Silver Battalion cut out for themselves. I imagine the Battalion’s been watching them for a while, but if they’ve moved out in so much haste that they’ve left all this behind, I have a feeling your contact is about to get riddled by quite a few arrows.”

“Really? Ah, damnit. Can you help out with that, then?” A rifle was lifted, Ludrasa glanced towards the direction the valley led to, “After all, I can’t exactly convince angry kaldorei to stand down. I’m not what you’d call a friendly face to them.”

“If it earns your cooperation in taking down the Black Legion, then I will help you.” Sint pulled her sword from the ground, “I cannot waste time on the membership of the Horde if they are unwilling to stop the darkness in their own lands.”

“Hold on, what if it ain’t the Silver Battalion?” Ludrasa nervously laughed, “It could be the Black Legion already, and we won’t need you after all.”

“I don’t see how that changes anything, Ludrasa.” Almost on queue, both Ludrasa and Sint’s expressions changed. Ludrasa’s smile grew wider, Sint’s face turned into a frown, “Unless that means you’d be willing to run away the moment you’re sure that your people aren’t in danger from the Alliance. I’ll let you know, Miss Sheiza, that if you run from this place- I will find you afterwards. Don’t forget that you told me how to find you. And even if you didn’t…”

Ludrasa’s wide grin broke with that, “OK! OK! You’ve got our help. Thought you might’ve been one of the nicer Alliance types, you know… Like Warrior was. Though Warrior was a bit of a wackjob, she was kind. Had kinder eyes.”

“Warrior is not who I am. Whatever you know from that version of me is something you must relearn, for I do not let things go so easily.” She lifted her sword, its tip pointed at the elf’s throat, “You took that contract. You feel the darkness in this place. You will not flee until this is finished. Even then, if the battle is over, I don’t think I’d allow you to go scurry off and hide underneath a rock. Your knowledge of this conflict is much too great just to let you exist as a mercenary. Your talents, your merits, they’re wasted on such a trivial trade.”

“Didn’t ask you to lecture me, Sint Dagon. Last I checked, you have no room to talk. You’ve been runnin’ from your shadow ever since you were thrown into this conflict, kickin’ and screamin’.” The elf pointed her gun at Sint’s head, “Put down the sword.”

“Make me, Panther.” Sint’s eyes almost felt like they were burning through Ludrasa’s skull, the elf’s stance weakened as the confrontation continued onward. It was true that Ludrasa and Ora-Ur had known the true Sint for a small amount of time, as they had only known the amnesiac Sint named ‘Warrior’ up to the point of her regaining her memories. Though unhinged, Warrior possessed a warmth to her that was not matched by Sint. Warrior had spirit, had spunk. She was a wild soul, untamed by the conflict around her. She rushed forward into the future with little concern for what came before her, her enthusiasm to fight and face new challenges was infectious. That vibrant spirit was matched only by her own peculiar kindness, as she seemed to truly care about those who risked themselves for her. She lived in a confusing world, her life as confused as that very world. But she didn’t let it hold her down.

But Sint? Sint wasn’t the complete opposite of Warrior, but it was clear that Sint suppressed the aspects of Warrior that Ludrasa found endearing. Commander Dagon was colder, her emotions kept to herself. She was guarded. She was troubled. There were secrets in Sint’s eyes, as there were things she wasn’t willing to share with anyone, not to mention people she barely even knew. It was no secret that Sint considered Ludrasa and Ora as near complete strangers, as Ludrasa could only imagine how strange the memories of Warrior were to her. She lived another life, albeit for a short time, a life not influenced by the life that came before. Whether or not Sint was influenced by Warrior was another conversation entirely, something Ludrasa couldn’t say yes or no to. She didn’t know Sint before she was Warrior, she hardly knew Sint as Sint. Whoever Sint Dagon was, she was not someone to be trifled with. She was much too serious for that, at the very least. Ludrasa lowered her rifle, “Right… Enough of that. Guess we’d better catch up to Ko’hea before things get more out of pocket.”

Aranor looked at both Ludrasa and Sint, the ranger decided to stand back a bit. He looked at Ora who was not too pleased that a human pointed a sword at her companion, “...Am I the only one who’s feeling weird after watching that?”

“No, Aranor.” Ora looked at him, “But I don’t think you feel the same way as I do.” 

“Right, I’m turned on. You’re probably horrified.” He clapped her on the shoulder, “You’ll get used to it. The stories I’ve heard about her all end up about the same. The people she meets eventually rally to her banner…”

“Yeah, I’m sure you’re real excited to erect her banner.” Ora rolled her eyes, leaving Aranor behind to get Sint to lower her sword. The orc tapped on the blade, “Think you’ve made your point, Commander Dagon.”

“Good.” Sint removed Rebellion from Ludrasa’s neck, “I’m glad we’re all on the same page.” Without another word, she walked forward, the warrior beckoned for the rest to follow her. Wordlessly, they did. There was no point in arguing with her at the moment, for Sint mind appeared to be set on a plan of action. She was capable of tracking Ko’hea on her own, so their input was relatively unnecessary until they reached the Warguard’s location. Of course, this gave time for Ora-Ur to grumble, Ludrasa to anxiously watch Sint’s movements, and for Aranor to get over himself. Of course, he didn’t, eventually causing him to walk up to Sint. 

The ranger spoke, “I don’t believe it’d be us, Sint.”

“What?” She glanced over.

“I don’t think whoever chased off their troll is the Battalion. The Battalion wouldn’t want to chance the Horde knowing where their camp is, and well... “ The ranger leaned in closer, “We’re walking straight for the Battalion encampment. If we keep going forward, we’ll hit the camp within minutes.”

Sint didn’t respond, instead; she looked over her shoulder. Eyes trained on Ludrasa, “Do you think your contact is foolhardy enough to rush a sentinel camp?”

“No. Ko’hea doesn’t like this war. For her to bumrush a guarded Alliance base, well… She’d need a damned good reason.” The elf sighed, rubbing the side of her face, “That or she was tricked to run headon into them, but she’s not that dumb…” She paused, looking at Ora, “Is she?”

“No. I can confirm that the WARGUARD isn’t an idiot.” There was quite an emphasis on Warguard, “It’s like you people have no faith in Ko’hea.”

“I don’t have any faith in anything, Ora-Ur.” Sint turned her attention back forward, “Neither should you.”

Was that a retort on the state of the Horde? Or was Sint just trying to get under her skin? For a moment, Ora-Ur felt as if the little warrior had managed it, to pierce her mostly well-made emotional wall. How did she manage it? Maybe it was because Ora knew the much kinder form of Sint, the amnesiac Warrior, that this state of her was so able to tear through her defences. That, or the human knew exactly what she was doing. She didn’t trust Ora. She clearly didn’t like her. So, perhaps Sint was goading her to make a mistake. To prove her right.

It was incredibly sad, now that Ora-Ur had a moment to collect herself. She had naught a notion of why Sint was so different from Warrior, but she could tell that Sint was trying to push her away. Trying to not be the Warrior. There was no real way to tell, however, as Ora could see nothing in Sint’s expression. Her face was just as guarded as the rest of her, a steely barrier that defended her from the prying eyes of those she didn’t trust. Sint’s face betrayed nothing. And so, Ora gave up on finding Warrior in those intense gilded eyes. At least she would for now.

At last, an uncertain silence fell over the group. The ranger with no loyalty other than to violence. The contradictory mercenary of mixed allegiance. The shaman on a blind quest. And a juggernaut who struck fear into all. They were an odd bunch of conflicting personalities. Each of them had their own quest, a quest that just so happened to now line up with one another. One helluva coincidence, a coincidence that a few of them started to worry about.

Well, all of them but Sint. Aranor and Ludrasa could practically feel the ferocious rage boiling from Sint’s body as she led the march through Stonetalon. To the point that Aranor cast a few glances Ludrasa’s way (even Ora’s! Or at least the orc believed he looked her way.) as if to ask if Sint was alright. The ranger was right to be slightly concerned. Up to this point, he hadn’t particularly sensed ANY emotion on Sint. There were a few moments where he swore she was sad, but otherwise, nothing. She spoke flatly, her face never shifted, and she seemed to pursue everything with the same determination. This was different. Maybe it was because of the presence of Ora-Ur and Ludrasa? Aranor knew that Sint had a deep hatred of the Horde.

But it couldn’t be that simple, could it? These two (and their compatriot they were out to save) didn’t seem to be the biggest fans of the Horde. That, and they had some history. History that Aranor was completely lost on, due to his lack of understanding what that whole “Warrior” business was about, but history that he could easily tell was there. Sint knew these Horde, whether she liked it or not. And clearly, she didn’t like it. As Sint further peeled ahead, Aranor decided to satiate his curiosity.

His voice was low as he went to catch Ludrasa’s attention. “I’ve not seen her mad yet.”

“Me neither. Saw Warrior get pissed a few times.” Ludrasa was curt with the ranger.

“Apologies for her behavior, Ludrasa.” He grunts as he hops up over a broken step in the path, “But, I need to know why your presence has got her so worked up.”

“Kay. See, ranger, I don’t know Sint. Well. I do know her, just not much. I spent a few months with her when she had amnesia, but that girl was way different to her. Warrior had no secrets. Warrior had nothin’ to hide. Sure she liked stabbin’ things a little too much, but she reminded me of a little kid. Innocent. And easily angered. Had the damndest pout, Warrior.” Ludrasa cracked an uneven grin as she kept her gaze trained on Sint’s back. A grin that faded as quickly as it came.

“And Sint’s nothing like that. I admire her strength, her resilience, and all the deeds she’s done… but I can’t lie. She’s frustrating.” The ranger grimaced.

And the mercenary took her eye off of Sint, entirely shocked that Aranor said anything like he just did. She snorted, “What? Yer just now figurin’ that she’s awful?”

“She’s not awful! She’s just…” The ranger couldn’t find a better word.

Ludrasa clapped him on the shoulder, mirth still in her voice. “Don’t worry yerself, Aranor. I get yer admiration for her. Back to my story, though. See, one day, Warrior was gone. Last few days I spent with the Blades of Dagon, Warrior finally came back to her senses. A certain light got turned on when her wife called her name.” The elf kicked a pebble as they stopped before a broken bridge, watching Sint leap over the gap in the wood as if it were nothing. “And then, she didn’t say another word to me or Ora. Spoke real cautious-like with the Warguard we’re goin’ out to see. That childish energy wasn’t there anymore. That kindness. That warmth.”

“Mm. I see.” He felt himself frowning. “Do you believe she’s concerned you remember all that?”

“Nah. Doesn’t seem to be a Sint thing to worry about people rememberin’ her havin’ human emotion. I think what really bothers her is that she remembers us bein’ friends.” And the elf’s voice couldn’t have gotten more derisive, “And big scary War can’t have those.”

“Where’d that War garbage come from, anyhow?” 

Now that was the question of the hour. What is the deal with the Shadow of War? Aranor’s brow creased as he thought. “I wouldn’t call it garbage, per say. But I… do agree that it’s a strange one.” It was right to bring up. As long as Aranor had known Sint (personally only for a week, maybe less), he had known her as the Shadow of War. Though he knew not exactly where the title came from, he knew exactly what it meant to those who called her that. 

She was ruthless. Merciless, even. To some Horde generals that willingly served the Banshee Queen, she made them look like innocent children by comparison. It was not to say that Sint committed great crimes or atrocities, it is just that she seemed to have naught a single ounce of mercy in her body. She left no survivors. She took no prisoners. And it was not as if it were a moral dilemma, it was simply how she was. In all the stories he had heard, the reports he had seen, not once had Sint stopped to question her path. Never had she faltered. Then it hit him. The reason why she was so disturbed by the arrival of these Horde.

“You said Warrior was not like her. That Warrior was innocent. Warm…” He realized that there was not a kind way to put this as he paused to collect his words.

“And merciful.” Ludrasa finished his statement. Aranor glanced at her with surprise (and some suspicion that the elf could read minds), before he caught her looking at him with an amused expression. “It don’t take a genius to follow yer thoughts, ranger. Trust me, I’ve spent ‘nuff time ‘round humans to get where yer minds tend to go. Unhappy places. Extreme places. Ain’t much time fer subtlety in yer shorter lives.”

“Right, right. It just strikes me that perhaps she tried to push away her memories as Warrior? Memories that conflict with her… whole identity.” Aranor looked to Ludrasa, almost expecting her to have a witty retort. Instead, he found her with a thoughtful look on her face. She hadn’t considered this either, perhaps out of short-sightedness or a simple lack of concern. As they both now looked ahead to the furious Shadow of War, waiting for them on the other side of the broken bridge, they came to a near mutual understanding. Sint’s identity was not as airtight as they both previously thought. She wasn’t as resolute in her path as either believed.

It came as a relief to Ludrasa. But to Aranor? The ranger almost felt disappointed. 

Ora-Ur passed them both, leaping over the gap with ease. A gust of wind propelled her to Sint’s side, as now both the human and the orc waited impatiently for their two companions. Ludrasa’s single eye flickered back to the waking world, her thoughtful trance broken with her partner’s leap. “Wake the hell up, Ranger. We’ve got a warguard to find and a monster to hunt.”

And Aranor complied, his thoughts derailing as he watched Ludrasa leap over the gap, catching onto the edge and getting helped up by Ora’s strong grip. He thought about making a similar jump, but he saw that Sint was no longer paying attention to the bridge. Whether it was simply because she cared little for the ranger, or she trusted him completely to be able to make the jump, it did not matter. What mattered is that Aranor had to make that leap. Unlike the other three present, he was a mundane human. Arcane, elements, brimming Holy fury… these things did not come to him. All that Aranor had was a bow and a pair of blades. In a world of mages and monsters, a mundane man could only rely on his mind to make his living. So he took some rope from his kit, wrapped it around a serrated arrow, and launched it into the wood. And luckily, the orc saw this. He didn’t expect an orc out of all people to secure his crude grapple, but she did without a second thought. Ora fastened it around a fairly solid stone, even stomping a few rocks from the ground to better ensure his line would hold his weight. With a few tugs, Aranor could feel that his line would hold. The question now is if it would hold his weight. This rope was not meant to carry his weight and the weight of all his equipment, but instead was a poorly made and cheap thing only meant to carry him out of a dire situation. Something about the orc’s eagerness to help took some concern from his mind, though.

If she could leap that gap, she probably could jump to save him if he fell. He wasn’t keen on being humiliated today, so he prayed to Elune and the Light both that his rope would hold. As he leapt, his grip tight on his grapple, he closed his eyes. The rope creaked, it complained, but it held. Then he felt his feet contact with the face of the cliff across the rift. He opened his eyes to see that he had made it and felt as if he was about to cry. Thanks to whatever listened to him in that moment, he was not willing to face death or salvation in an orc’s arms that day. He was not quite certain which would be worse. It was simple enough to climb the length of the rope, and he chose not to reflect on how frayed it looked when he pulled it from the stone. Ora gave him a respectful nod as he rejoined the group.

“Thank you, orc.” That wasn’t something he ever expected to say.

A sheepish expression crossed her face. “I-It was nothing. You would’ve done the same.”

He chose not to tell her that he would’ve probably let her fall. He also chose to think about this later, that maybe he was a bad person for immediately thinking she should fall to her death for being an orc. It made him feel guilty, as she hadn’t done the same for him. “Mm. Y-yeah.” That elicited a quick glare from Ludrasa, as her elvish hearing made it so she could hear them from her vantage point. As long as it had taken him to get to where they were, Sint had stopped the group. Though he could not tell why just yet, he knew it was for good reason. Ludrasa didn’t look too happy, and Sint was alert. Heat still poured from Sint.

Ora and Aranor both walked to stand by Sint as she focused down the road. Lo and behold, they had followed the right trail. A few bodies and clearly Darnassian arrows were littered through the area. “Darnassian arrows, no kaldorei casualties. Seems to be a mix of Horde and Black Legion deceased. The Warguard was chased out by the Black Legion?” Sint’s voice was purely tactical.

“It would seem that way, yeah.” Ludrasa hopped from her vantage point atop a small fencepost. “What I can’t see is where the damn Black Mooners came from. Ticks me off that those demons still can do this to me.”

“Do what?” Aranor needled her. “Can you not track night elves?”

“Not since they picked up the power of the Night Warrior. Thanks fer poking a sore spot!” She snarled out, “Makes me feel bad enough that I can’t track ‘em, but now I’ve got a human jabbin’ at me ‘cuz of it.” 

“Awh. Don’t feel bad. I can’t track them either.” Aranor smirked, looking to Sint. “Betcha she can’t ei-”

“I found the sentinel’s trail. I want Ludrasa to come with me. Aranor, Ora, you keep on the trail of the Horde.” Sint’s voice quickly broke Aranor out of his mirth.

“...’course she can…” He grumbled under his breath. The fact Ludrasa began to giggle like an idiot told him that she heard that. Instead of further dwelling on the fact that had been, yet again, shown up by Sint “Shadow of Awful” Dagon, Aranor clapped Ora on the shoulder. “Welp! We’re buddies. Keep your eyes peeled for anything suspicious.” 

“I have a feeling that we’re not going to need to look too hard.” The orc flinched at the feeling of Aranor’s hand on her shoulder, her previously rich voice turning cold. Aranor wondered for a moment if he did anything wrong before following Ora’s eyes, realizing that she was looking dead ahead. 

Ludrasa looked down at both of their expressions, deciding quickly that it was probably for the best that she followed Sint’s lead and left them to whatever it was they were looking at. She also had questions for the little Shadow of War, questions that mostly related to her injured pride. Through some questionable underbrush and under a few trees, she found Sint waiting for her. “Okay, okay, so… How the hell?”

“What do you mean?” Sint’s voice was still decently flat, but Ludrasa swore she saw the corners of the woman’s lips upturning. Just slightly, just for a moment, but she knew that Sint was amused.

“I mean, how the hell do you track literal shadow warriors!? They’re melded with the Night, lady… like…” The elf threw her hands up, lost for words.

“It’s rather simple. You can’t.”

“WHAT?! THEN HOW?!”

“They wanted us to follow them. They never leave a trace, otherwise.” 

“WHAT THE ACTUAL F-”

______________

Warguard Ko’hea the Vigilant was a simple troll. She fought for her Queen and she tried to spare as many lives as she could. She was strong, after all. Strength allowed her to be merciful.

Perhaps she was not as simple as she liked to think herself as, as she drove her sword through the body of a horrible monstrosity. It was to be a simple mission, so her Queen told her, the Horde hadn’t the ability to handle the instability within their own lands. As a symbol of their continued alliance, Talanji sent her own to clean up the Horde’s mess. All Thrall had said about their issue is that something dark had risen within the confines of the battlefield in Stonetalon, something that he was uncertain he could commit Horde soldiers to in the face of the very violent regime shift from Warchief Sylvanas to the Horde Council. It was a fair enough concern, albeit a rather amusing one to the Zandalari. The Horde barely could keep itself together. It had gotten so bad that they were relying on foriegn aid. 

Of course, the Zandalari had needed exactly the same. The amusement was based on that irony, not the sense of superiority they would’ve undoubtedly held before Zul’s uprising. So to come here felt right. The Speaker of the Horde and many champions of the Horde had stopped the downfall of their Empire, it was only right that they gave back. Ko’hea had expected a few Sylvanas loyalists, insurrectionists. She did not expect the malignant foe they now struggled against. As her blade cut through another dark and twisted enemy, she was concerned that they may not stop coming.

The morning had gone like the two mornings prior. They continued to establish their camp and scouted the area. Ruined fortresses were combed through, derelict mineshafts were collapsed, and trails were marked. The landscape had been through hell and more in the last war, and it left plenty of places for a cunning adversary to lay low. Then her scouts located a war camp and ever since, a mass of darkness had swelled in their direction. At first, it looked to just be Horde exiles. Forsaken. Orcs. Trolls.

Then they spotted a Twilight Dragon. Ko’hea had been somewhat familiar with the Twilight's Hammer, albeit her experience was extremely limited with actually fighting them. The Hammer hadn’t troubled Zandalar too much, though the oppressive presence of a C’thrax like Mythrax and the Blood God G’huun had drawn some of them to their borders. Nothing too troublesome to handle, but that was because the strength of the Twilight’s Hammer was preoccupied. Corrupters of Elemental Lords, Dragon Aspects, and the very world herself. It was no small wonder that the Hammer had caused so much trouble elsewhere. Part of Ko’hea prayed to the Loa that Zandalar would never have to face the power of the Twilight’s Hammer, and that part of Ko’hea was relieved to say that it still was being spared from their strength. Still, she was the reason why. She was one of many shields of Zandalar, defending the homeland from outer threats. And as she looked to the great wyrm circling above them, she knew they needed to abandon their camp.

Maybe the Kaldorei that had been watching them for so long could handle the monstrosity. Either way, it was a problem that wasn’t causing trouble quite yet. The beast was quite content with keeping above the struggle, whilst Ko’hea battled the forces of darkness. It wasn’t just exiled Horde forces, it was forces that hadn’t troubled themselves with the Horde for a long time. Atal’ai. Blackrock Orcs. Ogres not of the Stonemaul variety. And even Fel Orcs. Fel Orcs were definitely something Ko’hea had never seen before, so to see a giant red orc with spikes and extra tusks barreling down at her with the murderous intent of a demon… Well, it was not a pleasant first encounter.

Ko’hea was bigger than the orc, but his strength still rivaled her’s. A few blows were traded between the two of them before she was able to find that she outskilled the brutal fighter, parrying his crude axe and driving a knee into his gut. Out of all things, even the monstrous drake that hovered above them, there was a presence that put a pit in her gut. It was an extremely strange presence that stood at the edge of the battlefield to observe the fight. Something so horribly twisted and dark that Ko’hea wondered if Bwonsamdi himself had come to fight. She could almost hear her Loa snort at the idea that he would trouble himself with a battle such as this, but she also could feel her Loa’s anger at the existence of that presence. It was a power of death, sheer death. A being of such necrotic strength that it choked the life around it.

When Ko’hea finally caught a glimpse of the thing, she was confused. At first, it looked to be like any other Death Knight. Sure the Scourge concerned her and her Queen (not to mention infuriated Bwonsamdi to no end), but it wasn’t new to her. She had met plenty of Death Knights. Even Death Knights of her own race. Why was this one different?

Then she got a better look, as she was able to push through the enemy’s ranks to get closer. A spectral cloak wreathed much of its body in smoke-like fabric, but what she could see beyond was black armor and a mist-like body. This was no ordinary death knight. This thing was a wraith, a ghost. It had no physical body. As if death had become so central to its being that anything even remotely lifelike could no longer exist within its being. A body? A face? These things were too tied to life for them to remain. As it stood there, every ounce of Ko’hea’s being told her to run away. All but the part of her that trained in the Temples of Rezan, that fought alongside the Torcalin order. The part of her that now prayed to Bwonsamdi for power. As a warrior-priest of Zandalar, such an abomination wasn’t allowed to stand.

She could sense that her Loa was happy she came to that conclusion.

As she sprinted to face the leader of this cohort of darkness, she felt her power swell. This was what she was meant to do, right? Fight darkness for her people? Even if it was so overwhelming?

She lifted her blade high, a blazing aura burning around her, only for it to be stopped by the knight’s hand. The wraith flicked her back, turning slowly to face her. Where the being’s face should be was shrouded by a visor, a visor that depicted a ghastly face. Something akin to the folk spirits of the Pandaren. Lowering itself, it seemed to take the stance of a monk. Not any style she had ever seen, but it was something she at least was somewhat familiar with.

“Interesting.” A decidedly feminine voice came from the being’s spectral form.

“Huh?” Ko’hea gripped her sword in both hands, preparing to strike again.

“You are my first foe. Isn’t that interesting?” She started to move around Ko’hea, a predator circling its prey. “In my previous life, the list of enemies I had was long and great. Each day I could wake up with the knowledge that my fists were useful, that I was to fight for my life. It was exhilarating. Then I died. And since my death, I have fought not a single soul.” 

“So I am to be your first?” Ko’hea grinned. “AND YOUR LAST!” The troll jumped forward, hoping her sheer size advantage would overwhelm the much smaller fighter instantly. Pushing down with much of her might and more, the Loa-enhanced strike was planned to instantly break the undead fighter’s guard. Much to her excitement, the being made no move to dodge. Instead… She completely nullified the attack by clutching the sides of Ko’hea’s greatsword. The force of the impact drove both fighters somewhat into the ground, shaking the area around them. Such an attack was worthy of splitting through even a Dire Troll’s defenses, but this knight? But a breeze to her. Twisting the blade, she pulled Ko’hea forward, striking the Warguard squarely in the jaw with a kick.

Her plumed helm tumbled into the soil, Ko’hea’s white hair now visible. Brute strength and the pride of Zandalar wasn’t going to carry Ko’hea to victory here. The Warguard needed to think to beat this impossible adversary. What were the weaknesses of the undead? She knew about their physical weaknesses, that Holy Magic and Fire Magic were particularly effective against them. Fel, as well, but she had no ability to call upon such vile magic. What else? Mindless undead were very rigid, they didn’t adapt. Were intelligent undead the same way? Did they fall into set and rigid patterns, in their attempt to appear alive? These weren’t enough. Ko’hea had to focus on their last weakness, the most difficult one to acutely handle. Being a creature unnaturally put back together, their soul was weak. Connecting a corpse back to any spirit, even their own, was a great and jarring weakness. Though this spectral foe was only their spirit and a suit of armor, it was not a far-fetched idea that if maybe Ko’hea shattered that armor that the spirit could be banished. All she needed was to break the seal, even slightly, to make her attempt. Thus, she shrugged off a few pieces of her armor. She gripped her sword in both hands once again. With the added weight of her armor now gone, the Warguard hoped that the new haste to her movements could give her the momentary edge to break the wraith’s guard.

She swung her sword to hit her flank, only for it to be dodged. Then from the other side, quickly making up for her failed strike. This time, the wraith just narrowly avoided the strike. She needed to keep this up. Ko’hea stomped, a blast of holy magic throwing up a few stones. The wraith jumped. “I HAVE YOU!”

Infusing her blade with all the divine strength she could muster, Ko’hea pierced the Wraith Knight straight through her chest. And then, Ko’hea roared, a blast of fearsome magic going through her blade. It was all she had, and she believed it would be enough. As the Light faded, she expected a limp suit of armor to be hanging from her blade. Not a still functioning Wraith, one hand tapping against the flat of the blade.

“It was an attempt, I suppose.” The Knight almost sounded disappointed. “Perhaps they made me too strong to enjoy the simpler things.”

Terrified, Ko’hea tried to get the Knight off of her weapon. There was no need to, as the Wraith seemed perfectly poised to do that alone. She drove her elbow down into the center of Ko’hea’s sword, shattering it in twain as one might do to a branch. Even against Ko’hea’s greatest foe, her blade had held. She had clashed with some extremely powerful foes in the past, but to see this bored knight break it with her bare hands was almost too much. Resolve fading quick, Ko’hea pulled a dagger from her belt, holding her broken sword and dagger up in a flimsy guard.

“This is sad.” The wraith mentioned, boredom evident in her voice. “What happened to your bravery? I broke your stupid toy. Keep fighting me. Entertain me.” In more august company, this would sound as if it were a gladiator’s challenge. The thought made Ko’hea slightly nostalgic as the Wraith came closer, the Warguard understanding that her death was imminent. “Don’t misunderstand me. If you don’t entertain me, you die. Maybe you’ll be better as one of us.”

“One of you? What are you?!” Ko’hea’s resolve strengthened in the face of certain death.

“Ouch. What am I? Why not… who?” The wraith sounded upset.

The troll spat blood to the side, as the wraith’s previous kick had dislodged a few of her teeth. “Oh, no reason. Just you’re an abomination to my religion.” 

“So close minded. Nevermind! I’m Yama-O. And what am I? I’m one of the servants of the Dark Lord.” This ‘Yama-O’ quickly bowed at the mention of the Dark Lord. She stood straight afterwards, patting at her chestplate. “For someone who doesn’t even know who the Dark Lord is, you did do a number on me. He’ll be very pleased that I caught another strong spirit.”

“What?” Ko’hea’s stance strengthened, her voice venomous, “You plan on turning me into one of you? On my pride as a warrior of Zandalar, good luck trying.” She held her broken blade out. “I won’t give you the chance to make me an abomination! YAARGH!” Ko’hea belted out another powerful battlecry, her strength coming back to her. This second wind gave her more power than before, allowing her to match the Wraith’s strength. Yama-O was forced to block and deflect each of the Warguard’s attacks, even letting a few slip. 

Ko’hea landed a solid punch across the visor of the Wraith, splintering it. Standing back to admire her handiwork, she wiped some blood from her face. The Wraith staggered back for a few moments, “Oh! That’s better. Were you hiding that from me?”

That wasn’t what she wanted to hear. She cautiously watched the Wraith move, “It almost sounds like you’re actually enjoying yourself. That’s… disturbing.”

“Disturbing? I’m finally being given something exciting, troll! You were much too simple before.” Then she lurched forward, her splintered visor still holding. “This, though? PRACTICE IS OVER! TIME FOR-”

“Oh.”

Yama-O’s hand pierced through Ko’hea’s chest. “Too much, then?” The wraith let the troll drop, shock still crossing her face. “Hm. For a second I thought you could handle that. I guess not.” She flicked the blood from her hand.

“...H-how?” Ko’hea’s voice was wet, thick with blood. The wraith had gone through her lung.

“What do you mean, ‘how’? You saw how. You were outmatched.” Yama-O picked entrails from her clawed hand.

“No… How can you be so strong?” Ko’hea wasn’t dead, far from it. A slight glow surrounded her wound, both the regeneration of the trolls and the Holy Light mending the hole. “I’m not an idiot. I’ve fought in many wars, and none of my foes have been as strong as you. And then… you say there are more of you? Just what have I gotten myself into?”

“Interesting. I’m stronger than anything you’ve ever fought?” She seems to consider that for a moment. “Even the Shadow of War? That can’t be right.”

“The Shadow of War? You say that as if I know who that is.” The troll trembles as she starts to rise. “Unless you mean that human… What was her name? Warrior. Warrior wasn’t my enemy.”

“She is now. Or at least, she should be. The Horde and Alliance aren’t on the greatest terms. Never have, never will. And they keep getting their champions killed for it. Isn’t it awful? Their prodigies are taken before they can grow into a proper challenge.” Yama slams a fist into her palm. “But that one? She’s special. She scares my master… And I’ve never been able to touch him. Isn’t that exciting?”

“That little girl scares your master? Where am I? Did someone concuss me or something?” Ko’hea couldn’t believe the words coming out of this undead. She had met Warrior once or twice in her campaign against an unseen army, something that had threatened the Horde from beneath the pages of history at every turn. The Alliance had some stake in that conflict, as she understood that they had finished the fight whilst she held off their foe’s army. That little warrior was a part of that fight, and Ko’hea knew she was tough. But if she was enough to make this Dark Lord wary, perhaps she’d better find her. That is, if she survived this day.

“The Black Legion has faced defeat before by her hand. Though, Warrior? That’s new. She is the eternal adversary to Conquest. She is War. She is Sint Dagon.” Yama crossed her arms. “Though, you have met, so perhaps you understand something. Maybe it isn’t her strength that makes her powerful, perhaps it is her path. Her conviction. It opposes my master’s so deeply that she is his counter. His balance.”

“You’re completely insane.”

“Duh.” Yama lunged, her clawed hands curled and prepared to inflict a brutal beatdown on Ko’hea. The troll accepted her fate, just for a moment, until she saw a brown shape hurl through the air, colliding with the wraith. Though the shape was quickly thrown off, Ko’hea couldn’t believe her eyes. 

Ora-Ur, the Fist of the Storming Star, had come straight from her memories to fight alongside her. Well, it would’ve been a near perfect match to the Ora she knew if not for the loss of this Ora-Ur’s right hand. “Stand and fight, Ko’hea. This thing might be better than you, but what about all three of us?”

“Three?”

“Sorry! She’s faster than she looks!” Ko’hea’s eyes widen at the sound of the last voice, the voice of a very clearly human man. 

“The Alliance? Damnit! They’re here?” Ko’hea spun around to hold her sword to the ranger, surprise evident in his green eyes.

“Oddly enough, I’m a friend. Ora can vouch, but now’s not the time! That thing’s about to get back up, and by the looks of it, we’ll need to work together to put it back where it belongs. Fiends like that only deserve a quick and decisive death.” 

Yama-O stood, hands now curled into clawed shapes. “Good! Let’s dance!”

Ora-Ur lowered herself into a battle stance. Ko’hea strengthened herself, raising both her dagger and her broken blade. And Aranor prayed under his breath for Sint to hurry up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy. Not only is everyone really suspicious of Sint, but there's some FIGHTIN. Hell yeah...


	12. Malady Blade

Ora-Ur hadn’t known much warfare. Much of her life had been hard, sure, living mostly alone and surviving off of very little. But war? It was foriegn to her. The orc may have survived through the time of the Horde and Alliance’s campaign to deliver Outland from the grips of the Legion and Illidari both, but that didn’t necessarily mean she remembered it. She was both young and far away from much of the fighting, living in Garadar with her mother and mentor. So to hear the stories of grand armies clashing, the powers of creation manipulated and sent between them… it was nothing short of terrifying to the younger Ora-Ur. Now, though? She could see warfare with her own eyes.

It was as terrible as she imagined it. The moment Sint had broken them into teams, she saw the fighting that Sint focused on. ‘Twixt the gloomy treeline and hazy cliffaces, amidst what must have once been a fortress, was a desperate battle. The lines had been drawn, on one side was black, the other was red. The proud soldiers of Zandalar and the Horde were held up within the ruined keep’s walls, whilst the forces of the Black Legion assailed them from any vantage point they could make. A drake circled above their head, a bolt from the beyond striking the stone every few minutes. It was clear that the Horde wouldn’t be able to hold out much longer if the Black Legion kept up the pace, but that was when Ora heard the crazed battlecry of someone she knew.

Watching with awe, she saw a massive troll chase across the battlefield, her blade held high over her head. Wrathful flame licked from her form as great gilded wings stretched from her shoulders. Each step shook the ground, and it was as if her charge had stopped time. Each soldier stalled as they watched Ko’hea the Vigilant extend the long arm of Zandalari law to obliterate a dark monster from the realm. With a swing, the dark skies split open to reveal sunlight, the ground trembled as if it were a groundquake, and all watched with bated breath. Ora expected whatever that sword came for to be naught but smoldering ash, but to see the smoke fade only for a dark figure to be revealed was nothing less than horrific.

Then she watched, paralyzed with fear, as her friend was beaten down. Her heart soared when Ko’hea was able to land a few hits, but then it plummeted into an abyss of despair as she saw the monstrous knight pierce her chest with a single strike of their hand. Why couldn’t she move? Why wouldn’t she move? She had a reckless streak to her, always finding herself face to face with the most dangerous enemy in sight. She had fearlessly tackled a faceless one, she had blocked the attack of a dark and demonic prince, and she had even leapt into death itself to save her best friend. So why now, why now did she stop?

_ You’re afraid. I was wondering when you’d finally feel it.  _ A mocking internal voice bubbled at the edge of her thoughts.  _ You’ve been going so long and so strong, it was only a matter of time until you hesitated. Hesitation is death, Ora-Ur. And your friend will die because of that. _

**_Just like our mentor._ **

Ora’s hands tightened. She felt her pulse quicken, her breath growing shallow. Her mouth went dry.  **_Just like our mentor._ ** Her inner voice said again, and again… and again. 

And Aranor could do nothing but watch Ora seize up, her eyes glazing over. The ranger knew that look. He’d spent enough years fighting to know exactly what it looked like when someone was in another place, trapped by their own demons. Hopelessness wasn’t exactly the feeling he expected to feel today, but as he saw his only capable ally stall in her tracks, he immediately knew that this Horde group stood no chance. What could he do? He was but a mundane man with no love for the Horde. They had no love for him, either. Would they even bother listening to him? How could they be sure he wasn’t with the Black Legion?

They couldn’t be sure. But he knew for a fact that if he didn’t do anything, they’d be dead within minutes. So Aranor did something brave. Probably the bravest thing he had ever done. Sheathing his swords, he sprinted to Ora’s side, and hugged her. Perhaps he was a complete stranger, and perhaps he had no place in doing that, but it felt right. “Ora-Ur, come back to us. I don’t know where you’ve gone, but we need you. Put yourself together for a few minutes, kill this dastard, and then we can talk.”

He expected to get his head ripped off, but instead he found himself holding a trembling orc. She looked at him with a surprised look, as she had been brought back to the present. “...You’d do that for me?”

“That’s only IF we all survive.” He cracked a toothy grin. “Now, it’s time to save that troll.”

“That’s Ko’hea.” Ora gulped, trying to steady her nerves. “But yes. Let’s.”

Flicking his silver swords out, there was a solid moment of Aranor going completely silent and freezing. THAT was Ko’hea? The troll that was now healing a hole in her chest was the Warguard they came for? “Ora maybe we should rethink- Aaaaand… there she goes.” He watched Ora-Ur practically throw herself with a gust of powerful wind, turning her body into a torpedo of elemental lightning. She hit her mark, crashing into the undead commander like a bolt of lightning. Luckily, her path had been cleared by that same magic, giving Aranor a straight shot to reach her.

He caught up the moment the troll managed to pick herself up. Though she shot Ora a suspicious look. “Three?”

“Sorry! She’s faster than she looks!” He shouted out as he ran. The ground was slick with blood and mud, causing the ranger to slide to a stop. For a moment he was worried he was going to run into the troll, as by the time he had gotten close, he realized she was immense. Bigger than most of her kin, only likely beaten out by the rare dire troll. He cringed as he saw her turn, rage evident in her features. He was about to be bisected.

“The Alliance? Damnit! They’re here?!” She lifted her sword in preparation to end his life, but a moment of quick thinking probably saved his hide. 

He stuck his swords into the dirt, holding his hands up so that he didn’t look threatening. “Oddly enough, I’m a friend. Ora can vouch, but now’s not the time!” He wanted so dearly to explain himself to this angry juggernaut, but he saw the undead begin to rise up from the crater Ora-Ur put it in. “That thing’s about to get up, and by the looks of it, we’ll need to work together to put it back where it belongs.” Though really, Ora-Ur and Ko’hea could handle it. He wasn’t much help. With a zealous addition to the end, Aranor felt as if he may have staved off her wrath. “Fiends like that only deserve a quick and decisive death.”

Ko’hea recognized that he was on her side with that final addition, a curt nod given to him as she turned back to face the undead adversary. Said foe had lifted, a decidedly feminine voice coming from its steel shell. “Good! Let’s dance!” Her hands curled into a clawed shape, as if she was going to dash forward and eviscerate them as if she were some sort of raptor, her body set into a strong martial artist’s stance. Ora-Ur did the same, getting into her own sort of battle-stance. That explains why she doesn’t carry a weapon, at the very least. Ko’hea had put together a quickly made battlestance, showing her unfamiliarity with dual wielding weapons. 

Aranor wasn’t an idiot. Things didn’t look good for them. He wasn’t too sure how strong Ora-Ur was, but he had a reasonable suspicion that she wasn’t as powerful as the Warguard. People like the Zandalari didn’t promote mediocre soldiers to defend their royalty. That and he had seen how hard she could hit, harder than any paladin he’d ever seen. The Warguard had gotten some sort of second wind, luckily, so she wasn’t as weak as she should’ve been after tanking what would’ve been a deathblow to just about anyone else. And him? What would a few arrows and fancy sword tricks do to a monstrosity like that? And so instead of preparing to kill his enemy, he was prepared to slow her down. 

So that Sint could get there and save them. That, or he could get a head start in his retreat.

Ko’hea chose to speak to Aranor and Ora-Ur. The ranger had a feeling it was aimed only at Ora, though. “That thing introduced itself as Yama-O. Says its a part of an order of things just like it. The wraith knight doesn’t seem to have a physical body of any kind. Trust me, I-”

“Wraith Knight? You know what it is?” Aranor piped up, eliciting a dirty glare from the troll.

She spat, “No. I came up with the name while fighting it. Don’t interrupt me, human.”

If not for the sound of metal being broken, Aranor would’ve retorted. His attention was caught only to see a boot crush a golden helmet. That must’ve been Ko’hea’s. Serves her right, he thought bitterly. Then his brain quickly ripped itself from that petty place, as he caught up with the fact that this Yama-O had snapped steel with her hands and crushed a helm with the ease of someone wading through shallow water. He slapped himself to focus, eyes trained on the Knight. 

Yama knelt for a moment, forcing the other three to get into defensive positions. The wraith chuckled. They were allowing her to control the flow of combat. It was time to test whether or not they could keep up. She swiped a gauntlet through the mud, splattering it into the face of the lightning-bound Ora-Ur. The orc hadn’t seen that coming, leaving her dazed for a few moments. Momentum took Yama further, as she smelled blood in the water. Ko’hea was still hurting. That second wind wouldn’t save her. 

Ko’hea saw the Knight coming. To become a Warguard of Zandalar, one had to be brave. One had to have trained for years on end to steel their body, mind, and soul to become a great warrior and even greater protector. It was no simple role to take. Nor was it an easy one to keep. She so happened to be one of the veterans of her role; the troll’s years being capped off by her title, “the Vigilant”. Bedrock unbreakable, Ko’hea had held up years and years of her allies and recruits. Pillar stalwart, Ko’hea had faced foe after foe to protect a King and now a Queen. Hero unbent, Ko’hea had stood in the face of certain death to rescue hundreds of lives. Now she would be a martyr, dead to the hands of a ghastly foe. That was, of course, if she allowed Yama-O to break her. The knight moved as fluid, each movement coming with ease and expertise, flowing as water would down a stream. As her body met Ko’hea’s, each blow was precise. A flurry flowed like water into cracks in the ground, each and every one almost unconscious. The warguard’s weaknesses were just understood.

Ko’hea swung. Twice she brought down her broken blade to open Yama’s guard, twice were her strikes left in empty air. She brought her dagger up in hopes of catching the Wraith in her feint, but the wraith’s palm struck her dagger out of her way. A quick jab sent Ko’hea backwards, her shoulder left limp from the force of the impact. Yama tightened her stance only to land a flurry of kicks into Ko’hea’s now unguarded flank. The troll weathered the unbridled assault, believing that she finally had captured the resolve to sustain this endless storm of attacks. That was, until she felt an extremely sharp pain in her chest. Hoping the wraith didn’t catch that, Ko’hea did her best to maintain her facade of unbreaking resolve. With a deft swing of her broken blade, she forced Yama to back up.

“Interesting.” The wraith murmured, “You have quite the body, troll. I have a feeling my skewer from earlier was a fluke.” 

“I’m beginning to think that it was, mon.” The troll swiped sweat from her brow, popping her limp shoulder back into place. “I’ve stood for years as a guardian of Zandalar. You’re far from the first overwhelming enemy I’ve faced.” She saw Ora begin to bristle, the mud out of her eyes. The orc was planning something, so Ko’hea decided to distract Yama further. “The greatest I ever fought took the combined might of four warriors greater than me to take down, and he still couldn’t kill me.”   
  


“Resilience is your greatest attribute. Could’ve fooled me with that world-shattering strike from before.” Leather and chain protested as the knight balled her fists, “But do you know mine?”

“Speed.” Ko’hea answered.

“Spe- Okay.” She lifted her hands up. “No fun with you.”

“They don’t hire Warguard for fun, abomination.” Ko’hea grit her teeth, squaring her stance. She threw her dagger at the wraith, feeling mildly impressed that she caught it mid air. It, however, was another distraction. Her arms tensed. Her body began to burn. Holding her broken blade’s hilt in both hands, she begins to channel. Distance was held. Other combatants would not prove a problem now. It was between Ko’hea and the wraith, and the wraith had no idea what Ko’hea had planned. As the fire started to burn outwardly, the Warguard started to think if she had any last regrets.

Then, Ora-Ur tackled her, “saving” her from her imminent demise. For a moment, Ko’hea wanted to curse the orc who brought her down. Prevailing over her embarrassment, her reason rationalized that her sacrificial explosion would’ve been stopped if the wraith took her head. “Get your head out of the clouds, Warguard! We need your strength to win this.”

If only she knew Ko’hea’s plan. Well. If she knew, there would be no chance Ko’hea could pull it off. One life for victory. She explodes, she takes the wraith with her. Her soldiers could go on without her. She doubted the enemy would last without Yama-O. She leapt back to her feet, her eyes trained on Ora-ur as the orc crackled with lightning. 

Now it was time for Ora’s plan. The orc almost seemed to dance through the mud, each movement made with a fluid grace. Ko’hea had seen better martial artists, true, but now was not the time to doubt her only trustworthy ally in a battle with certain death. Meanwhile, Ora-Ur had planned on Ko’hea following her. To see the troll stand back put a bitter twinge of disappointment in Ora’s mind. No less disappointing than the ranger, who had yet to move at all. It was as if he were paralyzed with fear.

The truth wasn’t far from what Ora believed, though Aranor’s movements were more so paralyzed with indecision. Cowardly was not a word to describe this son of Strom. Aranor was a survivalist, first and foremost. He trusted in his instincts, and his instincts told him he stood no chance and neither did his compatriots. That instinct made him doubt cooperation’s effectiveness. Sint had gone to gather the Silver Battalion. Verily, that would prove to be the wraith’s downfall. So either Aranor ran to join them, or he stalled to make sure the enemy could not flee. Whatever Ora-Ur and Ko’hea thought to get out of this, neither were correct in believing they would be the enemy’s downfall. No, they were the distraction.

Ora-Ur stomped, her foot sending mud and water into the air. The lightning filling her body arced through each drop, creating a cage around Yama. The wraith seemed to be caught unawares by this sudden feat. Though Ko’hea hadn’t joined her to attack Yama-O, perhaps Ora could plead to her to attack now. “Now! While she can’t escape! Hit her with all you’ve got!”

“Amusing.” The wraith murmured.

“Wha-” Ora’s voice caught in her throat as she saw the wraith grab onto her lightning cage, the lightning stopped by a shroud of shadow. 

“You have many tricks. So do I. Do you wanna see ‘em? Too bad if you don’t.” If the cage were solid, the wraith was a mist, passing with ease between the bars. Her form completely broke down to escape the lightning. And then, nothing. Between the static discharges from the cage and the raging battle around them, Ora could not see nor tell where the wraith had gone. Then, she felt a weight on her head. A weight that turned into a concussive pain, as the wraith’s boot cracked into her forehead. Yama-O moved above Ora-Ur in that moment of confusion, her foot planted squarely on top of the orc’s head. “Do you like that one? It doesn’t look like you did. Good!”

The wraith did not bother to even return to her stance as she walked to the prone Ora-Ur. She heard some shouts from the side, arrows bouncing useless against her metallic frame. Barely did she even care to notice the growing holy sensation, once again, as the troll made her fruitless effort to win. It was useless to resist the Dark Lord. It was useless to resist Yama-O. Taloned fingers curled to draw in the dark anima in the air. The dark wave sloshed in her palm before it culminated into a ball, a ball she now aimed at Ora-Ur. Another set of shouts fell on deaf ears as Yama lunged, her surroundings fractured with the speed of her move. Hand raised, she was prepared to blow a hole in that weak little orc.

Ora-Ur didn’t know war. But this proved to be a learning experience, as she faced her death so soon. Aranor was right to be afraid. This was hopeless.

_ “Useless.”  _ A voice. Time seemed to slow.

He seemed rather disgruntled, this heavy and deep voice.  _ “You bear my blood yet you cannot even make a stand against this arrogant spirit.”  _ His blood? Was this one of her ancestors?  _ “You will meet me soon if you do not stand up. Grip onto your greatness, Hynagar. It was my gift to you.” _

The world began to grow darker, as Ora-Ur now could see a black gateway standing before her. Erected from monolithic black stones and covered in ancient orcish script, part of her wondered if she had already died. This sight wasn’t unlike the stories she heard of the afterlife. Her mentor told her of the land where the ancestors dwelled, a land set in permanent and serene twilight. Ancient black and grey stonework littered the lands, a great Shadow Moon hanging above head. Though she knew this sounded very similar to the valley of the Shadowmoon Clan, she also had no doubts that this was a sign that those lands were once very linked to the orcish cycle of life and death. This wasn’t right. Her name wasn't Hynagar, anyways.

Ora was not dead. Not yet, at least. That was when she saw a black fist punch through the gateway, a black fist covered in foriegn armor. Now this… this Ora was familiar with. Maybe this would fool some, but she had made herself familiar with the Horde’s many monsters. Loyalists to Sylvanas, bloodthirsty generals, and just general lunatics were things that Ora-Ur had planned on taking down on her journey to find the answer to Kalandrios’ quest. This was the Mark of Blackfist, the horrifying High Warlord of the Black Legion. The very same Black Legion they were fighting.

She almost felt as if the person behind the voice flinched at her revelation. “I’m sorry, but that’s how you recruit your lackeys? I’m almost disappointed that anyone could be fooled by something so obvious.”

_ “You will regret this.” _

“No. I don’t think I will.”

Ora-Ur opened her eyes and rolled to the side, the wraith’s ball of black magic diffusing into the mud. She used a gust of wind to spin her entire body around, landing two heavy kicks into her foe’s side, each of them empowered by lightning. Yama-O was knocked back a few feet. For a moment, Ora imagined that if she could see Yama’s face, she’d have the biggest grin on her face. When she heard Yama start howling with laughter, she got her answer.

“WOW! You’ve got guts. I love it! Not a bad move, too. The whole spin and kick? Caught me completely off guard.” She clapped. “Shame you have to die now, with the whole refusal you just did.”

“How do you even know that?” Ora shakily stood, holding her forehead as it throbbed with pain.

The knight shrugged. “WELL. You know. The whole Dark Master thing comes with perks.” Her guard completely dropped as her mind jumped away from the conflict. “We’re all linked to him, I think. It’d explain why he can talk into our heads, and we can hear what he says. Right now, he’s yelling at me to shut up!” She cackles. “NAH! Sorry, boss! The fact you sent Malad AND NOT ME to handle War is gonna get you a penalty.”

“Malad?” The orc drew her hands in a fluid motion, water being drawn from the mud to heal her wounds. “Another one of you?”

“The absolute best of us, at that. The first Blade... It’s a shame I’ll never get to see War in action.” There was no doubt in the wraith’s voice, nor was there exactly any humor. ‘Twas not a joke that this abominable thing believed that Malad could handle Sint Dagon. Such confidence bred despair in young Ora-Ur’s heart, causing her to lower her eyes to the ground. If not for the actions of one brave man, she’d’ve likely lost her life to her mistake. Yama lunged to lop Ora’s head off, only to stop midway, as something grappled with her from behind.

“...I see.” He growled between gritted teeth, the voice of a determined man with naught to lose but his life. Swords skills and archery would do little to avail him against such a powerful opponent, to the point that he realized that there was no point in worrying about what sort of trap he could lead Yama into. Aranor knew that Yama would treat anything he did as if it were child’s play. So, why should he worry himself with martial skill or trickery if all he required was his own impressive strength? He was a man of the wild, after all. To shirk one’s strength training in a role like his was a death sentence. With a grip of steel, the ranger held Yama-O in a full double shoulder-lock. “You think of us that lowly, huh? Even our greatest doesn’t stand a chance against you, you think? Well. I’ll just hold you to that.”

The wraith was not amused. “You little coward… You blindsided me!”

“Ain’t a fair fight to begin with. You should’ve expected some trickery, eh?” She thrashed under his grip, but he would not budge. Even a few strikes to his legs did not force him to buckle, the man only further clenching his teeth. “...Just shows how out of your league you are. Maybe we ain’t strong. Maybe we don’t have flashy skills or powers. But we’re better than you.”

“Nonsense! You’re kidding me, right? You actually think that? LET ME GO AND LET’S SEE HOW MUCH YOU’VE GOT ME BEAT.” She flailed against his grip, noticing that he was already losing strength. She’d be able to break free soon, and that would be the end of this foolishness. The troll was struggling to get her power under control. The ranger was only human. And the orc had given up, even if she didn’t believe that she had. This is how the mortals reacted to her power? It was… delicious.

Then she saw the troll’s sword blaze with new life, the fractured half reformed in a brilliant golden Light. Lightning crackled as the orc planted her feet and drew her arms in. Only the ranger defied this strengthened resolve, as Yama could hear his breath sharpen. His heart pounded in his chest. “...You don’t want to die here, do you? Can’t you see that they’ll take you out with me?”

“Don’t make a difference. I let you go, I’m dead anyways. Might as well face death with my pride intact.” Holding on any longer started to seem impossible as Yama kept struggling against him, his hold quickly beginning to shatter. A helmeted head cracked into the ranger’s jaw. Down he went, and so Yama had freed herself. Twisting around with violent energy in her hands, she went for the killing blow on her other adversaries. 

With a battlecry, Ora-Ur pushed her hands forward, a torrent of electricity chasing through the air. Silently, the troll ran forward with her burning blade. Yama-O practically shrugged off the storm of lightning and caught the troll’s blade with her hands, wreathed in dark magic. “NOTHING YOU CAN DO CAN STOP ME!” 

But, suddenly… the darkness around the wraith died. Ko’hea’s blade cut through her armor like butter. Ora-Ur’s lightning fried the knight’s armor. Much to their dismay, there was no body within that metal, but they seemed to at least beat this malicious foe. Ora-Ur and Ko’hea looked at each other in disbelief, before cheering in absolute relief. Perhaps Yama-O would reform later, but they had defeated her after working together. A sluggish Aranor soon looked up to see them celebrate, his eyes trained on the still standing suit of armor. Was the battle so desperate that those two failed to finish the job, treating this undead enemy as if she were any other mortal fighter? 

A bolt from the black struck true, only a fist of stone stopping a deathblow. Shattered and marred by this conflict, a mad monster from beyond the grave only could cackle as Ora-Ur’s stone fist began to crack under her fist, Ko’hea sent sprawling into the mud once more by a shock of black lightning. “Gh-... Aranor was right to stand back…” 

“Seems like he’s the only one here with a brain. Seriously? You thought I’d give out underneath that?” She would’ve clicked her tongue if she had one. “Sure it cost me my armor, but I came to a realization. If we kill the Horde’s incursion here and stop word from reaching the Alliance, I get a promotion! I dunno to what, but… I think I’ll have my new armor fashioned after you! Out of you!” The wraith slammed her leg into Ora’s side, before shattering her entire left arm against the orc’s face.

“S-sorry… Grothorn…” Ora vomited from the weight of that impact. “Guess I failed again.” The orc could only manage to get to her knees as Yama-O created a shadowy limb in place of her old armored one. She sharpened it to a point.

“MOVE!” Aranor shouted, to no avail. “PLEASE, DAMN YOU, MOVE!” 

The world went white.

Yama-O was nowhere to be seen.

Instead, there she stood. A flickering flame danced around her body, white as Elune at her fullest. Her eyes gleamed a golden heat, her body contorted into a violent rage. Not far from her was her blade, white-hot. The ground was scorched. And then, ahead of her, the object of her hatred.

The thing that drew out her fury.

The First Blade, Malad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sint's mad. Why is she mad?
> 
> Next time on Shadow of Conquest...


	13. Storm Covenant

**Gilneas. 10 years ago.**

Perpetually gloomy, the sprawling city-scape of Gilneas was always a hard one to truly get a grasp on. It was as if she were alive, this grand monstrosity of stone and rain, as each time Ulren stepped foot forward something had changed. Months prior to his current visit, he met up with one Lord Godfrey to discuss some inane nonsense about the effect Ulren’s people had on the populace, with Godfrey strictly warning Ulren of the consequences if ‘His madness spread’. They met in this very square, which was now ripe with the smell of bread and cheese. It was supposedly a military square. To say that the change piqued this man’s curiosity was… honestly an overstatement. Ulren cared little which changed within the city, only that it did. Gilneas changed. That was just a fact.

Nevertheless, when he felt his stomach protest just slightly at the idea of leaving such a delectable scent behind, the man made a choice that would change his life and so many others forever. Such little choices could have great effects, this he knew, as his faith was surrounded by the imagery of water and rain. A single cloud in the sky could be the symbol of a great storm. A single droplet in a pond could cause ripples much greater in size than itself. One single, simple, little action could create waves that could engulf the horizon. This was the tempest created by choice, a tempest he quite well enjoyed. A tempest that so many on this singular Gilnean road would likely never understand. They were a people of a single mind, his people, so to see them deviate from their paths is something he’d rarely notion. He himself was not one to typically differ from his own goals, but he at least tended to be more… flexible than his kinfolk. 

This singular Gilnean road was straight and narrow. It did not wind nor did it bend, it had no flourishes. It was grey. It was stone. It was as it appeared, nothing more, nothing less. That was, of course, if you ignored the rain that always pooled in the cracks and crevices, wearing down the stone. The presence of moss and ivy that added a little green to the drab and gloomy grey. And the story of the road’s creation, although unlikely to stir much in a man’s heart, was likely still a task of many ardors. It was not as simple, not as straightforward, as it seemed. Nothing ever was, not even the people of Gilneas who often dedicated themselves to a simple way of life. If it was single-minded, it must be simple, mustn’t it? 

The smell wafted down that pathway and made Ulren snap back to reality, his eyes now focused on the storefront. It had just opened, how lucky! It was a fairly well-designed establishment, with a focus on a fairly rustic and humble feeling, something to make you feel warm and cozy in this rain-drenched graveyard of a city. He went to read the sign. And then he stopped dead in his tracks. 

Through a window he saw the face of a man he hated.

Aerick Dagon. What was there to say about that loathsome man? That he had attempted to bury Ulren’s way of life out of weak-willed paranoia? That he cared little for his children outside of his firstborn? Or that he kept making himself a nuisance, treating people like trade-goods, every interaction he took was for the sake of commerce? Aerick had no morals. Aerick had no loyalties. And yet, people loved him. Mister Dagon had spent years building his brand, building his core follower base. He basically bought love and adoration. And now, Ulren had the misfortune of realizing that this fairly cozy and good-smelling eatery was funded by that very sniveling merchant. That dreadful man who bought himself into Greymane’s court, who turned the Dagon Clan into House Dagon of Gilneas.

It’s a shame, since Ulren respected some of the Dagons. At least, he respected some of the older names. Artessa was a personal favorite of his, being one of many reasons his Storm Covenant even existed. They were a stalwart folk chosen by the Grey Sky, born with the blessing of the Light. Even standing here he could see the glint of gold in Aerick’s eye, the holy golden glow of the divine. The very same glint that now focused on him.

“Look who it is! I didn’t think you’d come back to this city, Lord Ethewick.” Lord Dagon feigned respect, bowing his head just slightly. It made Ulren clench his fists in anger when he saw that once again, Aerick’s family was nowhere to be seen. None but his eldest son, Santo.

“...Honestly, I didn’t think I’d return to this hovel, myself. I’ve never been an urban man, and I rather find the gloomy atmosphere upsetting. Alas, my hand was forced.” He lifted his hand, his slick seal-skin poncho moved out of the way. What was likely a harmless gesture to most revealed the longsword always attached to Ulren’s belt, a reminder to Aerick that he was not friendly company.

“I always find your disdain for the gloomy atmosphere of Gilneas proper to be so… peculiar.” Aerick’s face twitched when he saw Ulren’s sword. “Isn’t your little club based around the rain and whatnot? Is it not your thing to be gloomy?”

“We’re not brooding old men, Lord Dagon. The Covenant has no time to sit around and mope in the rain, nay, we quite enjoy the climate. The gloom of the city is its own doing, and I cannot see why any would willingly subject themselves to it.” He looked around, clear disdain painted across his face. He watched the other Lord nervously stroke his thin beard, a petulant look on his face. Neither man liked each other, so it was entirely baffling why Aerick would even bother. “Let us not dance around the issue any further, Dagon. Why are you even speaking to me? I would rather stick you like the pig you are than speak to you as equals.”

“The thought is mutual, Ethewick. I’m merely concerned why you’d leave your den to come and mingle with the people you hate.” Aerick’s frown deepened.

Ulren laughed. “Oh, how narrow-minded of you. I don’t hate the people, I hate the city. And, fair enough, I do suppose I do hate some of you. But why I am here? It truly is nothing that should concern a man of your standing. Very little that which I do is beholden to the greater populace.” 

“Oh, so you’re here on behalf of your cult? So then why was your hand forced? You cannot have me believe that you’ve finally started to fold to that little rat’s demands.” Aerick snorted at the thought of Ulren bending to “that rat”.

“Oh, what? You think Gyre’s managed to break me? That’s cute, even for you, Dagon. No. Karth is still utterly useless. No, I’m here to meet with a person of great esteem who reached out to me.” Then Ulren’s face broke from its deepening scowl, a grin now breaking across his face.

“...By the looks of things, this person’s involvement with you would cause me great stress. More stress than I need.” He shook his head, brushing back a few locks of wet hair. “Have fun with your club, Ethewick. Maybe one day you’ll do something worthwhile with your father’s inheritance.”

The sound of steel being freed from its scabbard and a yelp were all that told the people around the men that Aerick had overstepped his bounds. Cool metal now rested against Lord Dagon’s neck as his son scrambled to his defense, a warmaul clutched tightly in the younger Dagon’s hands. “Light above, Ulren! You dare draw steel against House Dagon?”

Lord Ulren Ethewick only glared at the son of Dagon. “Mayhaps this will serve as a reminder for your father that his time is limited. That this world tolerates men like him for only so long, before they are washed away. Lightning and Fury, Santo Dagon. Remember that.” 

For some reason, his words were enough to convince Santo to lower his guard. Just a few seconds passed and Ulren lowered his own weapon, sheathing it much to the befuddlement of Aerick. He brought his hands to his throat, now glaring daggers at his rival. “You scum.” Was all he spoke.

Ulren stepped away, his appetite lost. Truly, his inheritance was always what the other nobles threw into his face. Lord Yorick Ethewick, his father, had been a fairly prolific figure. His humanitarian efforts were highly renowned. The Ethewick Officer’s Academy and the Greymane Home for Gilneas’ Children were just a few establishments his father helped fund and promote. When he died just five years ago, many expected Ulren to use his father’s fortune to carry on his work. For a moment, it seemed like he was going to. He donated much of his inheritance to the organizations that mattered. Then, nothing. Ulren was the last heir to House Ethewick, and practically the last member of the family. He had vassals and servants, but the Ethewick estate was mostly treated as a meeting place for his father’s many business partners and friends. Friends and partners that did not transfer to Ulren, nor did Ulren particularly wish for that. 

All who paid any mind knew what Ulren was interested in. It was a pipe dream that he’d carry on his father’s legacy of promoting the Gilnean way of life, because all knew that Yorick’s son hated the state of Gilneas. They also knew he was a member of a strange religion, a religion named the Storm Covenant. So it came to no surprise that Ulren turned his estate into a meeting place for the Covenant. Indeed, it appeared that Ulren used his remaining fortune as a way to maintain the Covenant and transform his family home into a monastery. Gyre called him a heretic. Walden and Ashbury paid no attention to him. Godfrey worried only about the effect the Covenant had on Gilnean thought. And Dagon? Dagon saw him as a disappointment. Why? Because Dagon couldn’t use him for his own gain.

Now that Ulren thought about it, he realized how much more Dagon would be disappointed by the end of the day. With some newfound spring to his step, the Judge of the Storm Covenant was out to meet with Aara Dathos, once Lady Aara Dagon. The letter came to some surprise to Ulren, as he didn’t expect to both hear that Aara left Aerick, and that Aara was willing to speak to him. The last they spoke, Ulren was in a drunken haze and said things he probably didn’t mean. It angered her, nonetheless, so when awoke with a black eye he respected her decision and hadn’t reached out since. Aara was a respectable woman. Her family quite literally came from nothing, as she was an orphan who made her own name. A peerless singer, a shrewd mother, and a disciplined soldier were just a few of the things Aara could claim. 

And now, she wanted to talk to Ulren over tea.

At the same place Aerick Dagon chose to spend his morning. She told him to meet her in this very place, as now he could read the sign. “Ellana’s Den.” He’d have to ask who Ellana was. The thought passed when he saw her turn the corner. Aara Dathos was a striking figure, even so many long years after the last they spoke. She was nearly as pale-skinned as moonlight in a clear night, her hair glowing like the sun. And her eyes, a stormy grey, like the sky above. She was, by all means, a person of extreme duality by her appearance alone. She was his age and yet appeared the same as she had over a decade ago, proving that some were immovable by the flow of time. Where Ulren had a great black beard years ago, he had shaved the thing down because he hated the flecks of white that had started to appear just a few years prior. And now? His trimmed mustache and goatee were the bone white. It bothered him to no end, considering he wasn’t even that old. Maybe old for a soldier, but nobody lived like soldiers in today’s Gilneas.

She dressed in a nice coat, just as any self-respecting Gilnean would. And so did the person who accompanied her. Or, the child that did. This child was many opposites to Aara. Skin dark and rich. Hair black as the midnight sky. And eyes of shimmering gold. This came as a surprise to Ulren, as if not for the girl’s face, he could’ve mistaken her as a stranger in Aara’s company. But no, this was Aara’s only daughter. The reclusive daughter that had rarely been allowed to see the light of day under Aerick’s attention. Blind and sickly Sint Dagon stood in front of him, brow furrowed just like her father’s. 

He could see Aerick blanch and run off in a hurry at the sight of his ex-wife. It made him snicker like a man twenty years younger. Aara saw him after he began to laugh, a look of honest surprise on her face. “Well, that explains why you’ve not made yourself common in these parts. You’ve gotten old!”   
  
“So I have. Making trips from the hills has gotten harder as my bones have grown weaker. Alas, I can barely walk by myself! Woe for an old soul…” He shook his head. “A soul as old as you.”

“Oh, come off it, Ullie. I’m still in my prime!” She put a hand to her chest, an easy smile crossing her face. The smile did not reach her eyes.

“...What’s this about, Aara? We haven’t shared a single letter in over ten years, and yet you are standing here as if we’re still close. Let’s not forget to mention that you’ve brought the daughter that half of Gilneas swears isn’t even real.” He strums his fingers against the hilt of his sword. 

“Cutting to the chase already, eh? I guess tea’s not in the picture for today.” The diva shook her head. “Well, I was going to invite you to my last performance. I know we didn’t exactly leave off on the best terms, but I wanted you to be there. You were there for the first, you supported me the entire way.”   
  
“My father’s money did much more than my words ever could. It’s a shame that our work was turned against us, so that pig could see you and force you into wedding him.” He shook his head. “Honestly, Aara, what were you thinking?”

“You were too slow to open my eyes and Aerick was a better man when he was younger. Then we had Santo, he brought home Dengarl, and then Sint came. What was I to do? Abandon my children?” There was a bitter note in her voice. “It’s not like I could leave, anyways. You know how he is.”

Quietly, Ulren took Aara’s hands into his. “So I do. More than most, embarrassingly enough. I still haven’t congratulated you on getting out of there. Strong, brave Aara Dathos. You spat in the face of the entire noble court and sang the entire way out. And it seems you’ve freed more than yourself.” He looked over to Sint, the small and slight girl entirely quiet as he spoke to her mother. “Hey, Sint! I’m talking to you now.”

She jumped when he spoke her name. It bothered Ulren that when she looked in the direction of his voice, nothing shifted on her face. No emotion seemed to escape the girl, even though she clearly jumped at the mention of her name. What life had she lived that she needed to hide herself so well? “...Good morrow to you, Lord Ethewick.” She gave a curtsy. Who the hell teaches a blind girl to curtsy? 

The look on Aara’s face was a pained one. A mother’s regret, most likely. “And a good morning to you too, Lady Dagon. I’m sorry to have never made your acquaintance. Your Lord father has never seen eye to eye with me, see, so I’ve just never had the opportunity.” He knelt down so that he’d be easier to hear. Aara stifled a sound of protest as he knelt easily into the mud, forgetting for a moment that her old friend was not a man who much cared for appearances. “Your mother and I are old friends, though I’ve not spoken much to her since she wed your father. Our last conversation must have been before you were born.”

“Is that so?” The girl’s voice was even and practiced. Much too mature for someone her age, much too practiced for someone supposedly born of the Dagon Clan. “My mother has spoken little of you, my Lord. Do forgive me for being ignorant of you.”

“Don’t fret, little Lady. I doubt there’s much to say about me, I’m not a man of much importance. Well, at least to Gilneas proper.” He gave a warm chuckle, unbothered by his friend’s choice to not teach her children about him. “The places I go are places the nobility of this place don’t care for.”

“My father has spoken about you, however.” There was a hard edge in her voice when she mentioned Aerick. “He told me to avoid your… cult.” The girl spent a moment trying to find the right word for it. The air she put on would’ve been cute if not for what he knew of House Dagon. So prim and proper. So… sad.

“Oh, the Storm Covenant? I can only wonder why he’d tell you to stay away. We spend much too much time in the rain, throwing mud at one another. Too much fun for stuffy old Aerick.” He put a mocking tone to his voice, a tone that made the girl smile. Just a little smile. It was enough for him to keep pushing. “Ho-hum, says the Lord of Dagon in his great black tower, frowning each and every time he saw my lads enjoying themselves. It’s not like we cared! We were too busy with revelry to care what such an angry little man thought of us.”

“It’s improper to say these things.” Little Sint Dagon said, her flat and even voice barely able to hide brimming mirth. “Though, it sounds fun. I do see why father forbade me from it, even though my explorations of the city were already so limited.”

“Not much to see.” He said, waiting for her reaction to his fairly crude joke. Her mask cracked, and she giggled like a girl her age should. 

The girl laughed for quite some time, even though his joke wasn’t all that good. It was as if it were the best joke she had ever heard, and it was at the expense of her own disability. Wiping her eyes, her eyes slightly widened at the realization that she broke form in front of a noble Lord and her mother. “...My apologies. That was wrong of me.”

“Don’t be a stick in the mud, little Lady. I doubt your Lord father allowed you to speak to anyone who spoke to you like a normal human being. Such a shame! I hope your mother is doing her best to let you live an actual life!” He stood and swept the mud from his legs. It was good that he wore such a water-resilient outfit. “We all have great potential within us, granted by the Light. It’s shameful to stifle any single person’s ability to grow for your own sake! What would the Grey have to say about that!? Nothing! The Grey is a storm! But it would at least hit the bloke with lightning for daring to shirk the glory of the Light.”

A noble lord came this far and knelt in the mud for her. And he told her that every single person had potential. Each person had power. These were words she had never heard, words that always seemed so far away from her.

Lord Ethewick spent the rest of the morning with her, even going so far to buy her some sweets and a pair of pants. It was an odd thing, but it was something he could tell. Maybe nobody else could see it, but there was something within Sint. A fighter. And a natural born fighter hated frilly skirts, just as little Sint Dagon did.

Ulren accidentally told Sint that hating her father was okay. And that living her life was right.

“Lightning and Fury, little lady. Defy the future laid out before you by man, for only the Light can see your destiny. You alone define the path you take, as the Grey gave you the power to choose. Choice, Lady Dagon. Choice is your greatest weapon. Fight for it.” 

Those were the words he left Sint with.

Words that she still carried to this day.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**The Land of the Goddess, Stonetalon. Today.**

“Lightning and Fury…” Sint muttered beneath her breath as she climbed a hill, following a path laid out for her by Elune’s Chosen. 

“What was that?” The voice of Ludrasa Shieza broke through the silence. “Lightnin’ and Fury? Whas’ that supposed to mean?”

“I forget that your people’s hearing is that good. I suppose it cannot hurt to say. Those words come from the Storm Covenant.” Sint’s voice was not as flat as it tended to be with Ludra, the elf noting the slight twinge of nostalgia seeping into her words. 

“The Storm Covenant, eh? That some sort of group?” The elf now focused on Sint as they climbed up the hill, more than she already had been.

“That’s the simplest answer I could give, certainly. But the Storm Covenant possesses much more than being a group. It’s a way of life. It’s a promise.” Sint stopped, closing her eyes. It took her a few moments to search her scattered memories for the words she had long ago put to memory. “...The storm approaching is clad grey in hatred. Be it by heaven or sea, or by heart and soul- War shall ride unbidden with the reigns of devastation. Lightning and Fury. We shall prevail.”

“...Strong words. What do they mean?” The elf had taken an earnest interest in this, much to Sint’s surprise.

The warrior’s sword hand twitched as she thought about it. “Truly, the Covenant has a different meaning for most. But, I always believed it to be a promise that no matter the obstacle, no matter what might stand against an individual, they will forever be able to find a way. It was helpful for me when I was younger.”   
  
“And now you’re war. Unstoppable and ridin’...” She smirked. “Didn’t think you to be the type to think about things like this. Always hit me that you did things mostly… on instinct?”

“Instinct, huh? That’s what you think of me?” Sint started to climb the hill again, hiking slowly up its side. “I did not think that you thought me so reckless.”

“It’s not recklessness. It’s just that you always look so confident. I’ve known this version of you for just what, a handful of hours? And look at you. Everythin’ you’ve said and done has been instant, without doubt.” The elf looked up to the sky, a pensive look on her face. “I suppose it makes some sense that it comes from a human. You live for such short times, you don’t got time to think things through like we do. And honestly, we probably make a fool of ourselves with the choices we do make. To us, we’ve got an eternity. Why rush things?”

“These days, that kind of thinking gets you killed.” Sint’s retort came easy.

The elf didn’t bother to fight against that, because Sint was right. “Took my words right outta my mouth, huh. We’ve got so much longer than you and yours. So maybe forcin’ choices to almost look like instinct makes sense, to me.”

“It’s not instinct.” The warrior reached the top of the hill. “Every choice I make is one I take for my path. I am confident in my goals, thus my decisions are made with confidence.”

“Even when they’re wrong? Like, sendin’ Aranor and Ora out as a team. I may not be in charge here, though I certainly think us lookin’ to you fer guidance is a smart thing, but I don’t think that was smart. They don’t know each other. Hell, Aranor clearly don’t even like us Horde.” The elf began to pester Sint. “Moment he gets the chance, he’ll ditch her.”

“For an elf, you are rather short-sighted. Ironic, coming from someone who used to be blind.” Her words were like steel. “I am willing to put aside my hatred for your people, because I trust that our current adversary is far worse than my feud with you. It is foolish to put yourself before the world, especially when you are out here to defend people. I came to defend my loved ones and my people. For perhaps a selfish mercenary, I can see why such a thought process is absurd.”

“...It’s like that, then?” Ludrasa grimaced. “Thought you were here to kill more Horde.”

“I am.” Such a matter-of-fact answer, though it sent a piercing chill through the nightborne’s body. Praising Sint as she did, it had little effect. Her heart was already set on a goal and nothing could change that.

Naught but death could, and even death seemed to have a tenuous relationship with her. She watched Sint’s grip on her sword tense, though, and looked forward to see what War was watching. Indeed, not far ahead, was exactly what they were looking for. Crouched and barely making an attempt to obscure themselves were a small group of night elves, each of them clad in armor that set them apart from each other. But they weren’t what Sint was looking at, at least not now. She was watching the battlefield, just as they were. And Sint’s eyes were trained on a figure far in the back.

The battlefield was a horrifying one for Ludrasa, as she saw Ora-Ur and what probably was Ko’hea facing off against a dreadful enemy. Ora fell to the ground and just barely managed to fend the monstrosity off. “Sint, don’t you think we should get down there? Sint?”

Whatever she said wasn’t getting to Sint. Neither did the tallest and most elegant of the group of night elves, who had called Sint’s name the moment Ludrasa did. Both the nightborne and the night elf looked at each other in surprise, and both collected a look of concern. The night elf ran forward, closing the gap quickly. 

Where Ludrasa was the opposite of graceful, this elf was the embodiment of it. Clad in sleek and form-fitting silver armament, she carried the elegance of Elune as clearly as she carried its wrath. A pair of black eyes looked down at Sint, the dark hallmarks of the Night Warrior crossing the sentinel. The sentinel quirked a snowy brow in concern, placing a slender hand on the human’s shoulder. She was then thrown back a few inches by a stroke of magic. She lifted her blade, pointing it at the figure pacing in the back of the army. “I recognize that one. That one is the one that killed Thuller.”   
  
“Thuller?” Ludrasa glared at Sint. Such a strange thing to expect her to know what that means.

The kaldorei apparently did. “So Thuller is dead, and Toth’arg is confirmed destroyed. The first of many to fall, thanks to you.” Her words did not reach Sint.

Sint’s body began to shake like a leaf in the wind. Her grip continued to tighten, the leather grip of her sword protesting against the force. Then a small shimmer started to glow around her. “I see him and I see red. What is his name?”

“We only know him as Malad.” The night elf looked on, confusion evident in her face. 

The answer they both got was a growl, as the typically so composed Shadow of War’s face contorted into a snarl. It was unlike anything Ludrasa had ever seen. Anger. Rage. These things were known to her, of course, but to see them affect someone so rapidly was frightening. At first the shimmer was bronze, then gold… then it started to gather white flames. It was as if Sint was burning in front of them, hot with maddening rage. The ground began to melt. The air grew hot and unbearable. This heat. This sweltering heat. Oppressive, world-shattering. It was War’s hatred. Ludrasa looked back to the night elf. “What do you know about Malad?”

“It has a masculine Gilnean accent. It, however, does not consider itself male or female. Nor does it consider itself human. My battalion has encountered it a few times, as it is the First Blade of the Dark Lord’s army. It thinks itself a death god.” The sentinel bowed her head to Ludrasa. “Apologies for the strange meeting, shal’dorei. I am Sentinel-Captain Tarro Stardew, master of the Silver Battalion.”   
  
“Yer the chick Aranor’s been tryin’ to get us to meet! Good to meet, I guess! Surprised you ain’t tryin’ to skewer me.” Ludrasa threw up her hands in mock surrender.

“We have no quarrel, child of Suramar. I can tell your hands are not stained with ashes, and for that, I shall spare you. Prove otherwise, however, and you shall join the many who painted the Horde crimson with my people’s blood.” She was polite, at the very least, when she threatened people.

“What do we do about her? She’s losin’ it.” Ludrasa jerked her thumb at Sint.

Tarro stepped back. “For now, we watch. We will intervene if necessary. I do not know what troubles her, and this power she displays tells me to not concern myself about it. Such things shall only give my Battalion hardship.”

“Convenient excuse to stay out of her way.” The nightborne snorted, attempting to put some levity into a dangerous situation. She found herself retreating further back, each time a new pulse of magic left Sint’s body. It genuinely looked extremely painful, the veins in her neck and on her forehead evident as she bared her teeth in a deep snarl. The gold in her eyes was flickering white, just like the flames around her, until they simply changed color. The moment they did, Ludrasa swore the world was going to shake apart. The pressure that had mounted shattered, causing the ground beneath them to rumble and break. Sint fell to a knee, but she never once started to yell. Her eyes never averted. This infinite fury was targeted towards one thing, and it made her surrender all else. No tears. No cries in pain. Just a word ending anger, beyond any anger she’d seen.

She didn’t know why, and it didn’t seem that Sint did either. She couldn’t be that mad that that ghost stole her kill, could she? 

Such musing was broken as she watched Sint rise from her kneeling position, practically covered in a raging inferno. She lifted her sword upwards, angling it as if she were about to throw it. There was a point when that blade no longer represented a mortal instrument, turning into a pure white javelin of Light. For some reason, as Sint held this near divine weapon in hand, she swore she heard a man laughing. As she tracked Malad’s movements, he grew closer to the fight between the other ‘Blade’ and Ko’hea, Ora-ur, and Aranor who had just grappled the monstrosity. “Sint, wait! What about the others! If you throw that thing, they’d be in the impact!”

“Silence, child of Suramar. Just watch.” Tarro’s voice was reverent. 

Ludrasa couldn’t do much else, it seemed, so she complied. It was an awe-inspiring sight, even if it was terrifying. A human, a mere human, grasped the power of the divine. The potential of mortals was beyond anything she could comprehend.

Then she flung that sword so hard that it rended open the dark clouds above. The black moon loomed above them as a white streak was as a comet through the air, striking the ground with the force of a groundquake. Then Ludrasa watched, wordlessly, as Sint dove from the edge of the cliff, her magical power carrying her body to the crater where her sword now struck from. “Damn… she’d make Sargeras blush.”

Said remark did not reach Sint, just like all the words before. For some inexplicable reason, she had felt a rage like no other fill her body. The last she felt such a thing was when she awoke from the stupor that was Warrior, hearing her wife call her name. Such things, love and rage, they were not familiar to Sint. Thus, they always burned far more passionately when they came on strong. Her love was exaggerated. Her anger was blown far out of proportion. But today? It was real. She didn’t feel as detached from this rage as she had from all emotion she felt before.

And she didn’t know why. Perhaps that confusion is what truly broke her composure, why she now rose from a crater of her own making with a blade pointed at a servant of the Dark Lord. The battle no longer raged around them, as each and every fighter within the Horde and the Black legion stopped to see what happened. Even the four who quarreled in the center of the battlefield stopped their desperate struggle. Lightning struck. Fury arose. War rode unbidden with the reigns of devastation.

Sint came by heaven and sea. Her heart and soul now were laid bare.

With white fury, she looked Malad in its masked face, the wraith taken aback by her sudden arrival. “Who are you?”

“My daughter! What a surprise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanna place an order. Can I get some Sint lore with a side of Sint rage?


	14. The Shadow of War

Everything went wrong. The people in the West weren’t meant to be found by an enemy. Blackfist wasn’t supposed to be alive. The people from Sint’s past shouldn’t have been involved. And Aerick Dagon was alive.

It didn’t take a genius to take a look at Sint Dagon, body wreathed with white hatred, to know that this was one of the more dire outcomes of the day. Even though she had torn open the sky above, revealing the black moon, all eyes were focused on a different divinity. Elune manifested herself above them, yet the kaldorei could not whisper her name. The orcs dared not seek the comfort of the ancestors. The trolls could hardly recall their oaths to their Gods. Even the solitary soul on the field who yearned for the Light’s radiance could not beg for its warmth, as his eyes were dead set on something more real. More terrible. More tangible.

They had all heard the stories. They all knew her name. Even the two wraiths of the Black Legion stood back. One dropped to a knee, the other clapped its hands. “Marvelous! Simply marvelous. Since the day you were born I knew you were meant for something greater than humanity! Look at her, all of you! We live in the age of gods!” Malad’s voice was thick with pride. “I am proud of you, my daughter.”

Sint did not look at him, her head still downturned. She was oddly still for someone covered with divine heat. The fires around her danced in a festival dedicated to her. Much of the armor she marched with, that mortal black and red, had been scorched and seared away. What remained was the lowest layer of that steel, which had been urged to glow a bright silver as it grew hotter and hotter. Hands once shrouded by claws were now uncovered, Sint’s dark skin a contrast to the blinding fury around her. They clenched into fists, her body slowly returning to motion. She trembled. 

“Is that what you see, abomination? Pride? Were you proud when you cast my sister aside like refuse? Was it pride that put me in a gilded cage, isolated from the world until it was undone? Your pride was the thing that killed mother? If it was pride that forced your hand, then I curse pride. I curse hope. I curse the divine and I curse you.” It was not fear or grief that caused her body to shake. To hear one’s father speak again might have driven them to joy, but as all who were present to witness War’s awakening saw… This hatred was not pointed at the Darkness that had swallowed Aerick Dagon. It was pointed at him, at the thing that Aerick became. It sent a shiver down Aranor’s spine to hear someone he respected speak to her father the way she did. Tarro Stardew did not expect her first meeting with Sint to go this way, fearing that perhaps it was a grave error to allow her to find them. And Ora-Ur clutched Ludrasa’s hand, terrified. The elf wordlessly looked back at her, fear in her eyes. Ko’hea stood as she always did, proud of her duty, but she offered a silent prayer to whatever might be listening.

Malad stepped back, with Yama hesitantly following him. The First Blade wasn’t expecting this answer. “...Is this what you thought of me? After everything I did for you? You, a meek little blind girl, you had no route to success! I gave you everything, you ungrateful child. The world had nothing to offer you, as you had nothing to offer it. There is nothing you are now that isn’t because of me!” He lifted his right hand upwards.

“And you never thought to ask me what I wanted.” Her breathing was all wrong, her lungs sounding as if they were ready to pop. “Never once did it matter what your family wanted. It was all about your glory and your gain.” With a horrible first step, the ground shuddered. Azeroth herself felt terrified by War’s awakening. “Power was all that you sought, each and every day you woke. That which the world offered you was not enough, so you took. And you took.” She scaled the crater, each step leaving a searing mark in the stone. “I ask you. Do you truly believe that I had no potential? Or was that an excuse for the life you stole from me, father?” That word, father, was spoken as if it were a curse. Weighty and filled with untold venom, it was almost swung as if it were a weapon. To the point that Malad went to defend himself, his blade appearing in his extended hand. He stood, hoping himself prepared for the onslaught he had brought to this place.

“I ask you this. Did you even love her? Or was mother just another pawn in your pathetic little game?” War did not look at him yet, her head still turned downwards. 

“Of course I loved her. I loved you, too.” Malad lowered his guard for a second. “I fought for your future because I believed in you, Sint. Your name, it is the name of a hero.” The wraith honestly seemed to forget that he was meant to be the enforcer of a Dark Lord. His stance softened. “So, it seems I did something wrong. Would you give me a chance to try again?”

She looked up, finally. The gold in her eyes was a fearsome silvery glow, almost blending in with the whites of her eyes. That glare alone was enough to stagger Malad. “Listen to yourself.” A voice that once had traces of song, places where joy could one day return to, had changed. War did not speak with Sint’s voice, though it was clear they were once the same person. Clenched, a fist lifted up. “A man such as you has no right to beg. You held your head so high, so high that even the Kings of this world did not matter to you. A life lived in such disregard for power does not belong in the place you find yourself now. A lapdog to an orc. I am embarrassed to be related to you,  **scum** . Do us all a favor and stand still.” Her clenched fist unfurled, her sword ripped from the ground with an unseen and tremendous force. Rebellion landed in her unclenched hand, soon finding itself embraced by a fist again. The silver Light she had imbued it with before return, replacing the weapon with a shimmering javelin.

Nobody expected another voice to join this familial dispute. “Sint, wait! That thing is your father? You can’t kill him!” It was mundane Aranor who spoke, a man untouched by divinity or magic. Perhaps he was now proven to be the bravest, or most foolish, of the people assembled today. “Perhaps he deserves death, but I can’t let you live with this! Don’t you think you’ve had enough sorrow?”

“Family does not mean anything to me. They are all dead, all of them. I am doing my late father a favor by destroying this mockery of his name. This power… this strength…” She leaned forward, her arms went limp. For a moment the fire died down, the person Sint became almost seemingly curled up in pain. When her other fist tightened, Aranor could only pray for Sint’s safety as this new being struck out. As if the presence of Malad was an outrage to the heavens, she launched herself with the strength of the world. Before she reached it, however, it called out to the Black Legion.

“What are you standing around for?! She’s going to kill me! At least win this battle!” Then, with all the strength invested to it by Blackfist, he met his daughter’s blade before it could bisect Malad. It brought its sword down to its side just barely before she struck, the lash of her blade impacting hard against accursed steel. The force of such a strike would have likely shattered most weaponry and most men, but luckily, Malad no longer was a man. It slid multiple meters before it stopped, a searing mark left in the First Blade’s weapon. Malad knew it could not take another strike like that head on. 

Then it looked behind itself, boggling at the sight. Divinity compelled into that slash had been unbidden by its defense, a deep blazing gash in the ground behind it. It would have wept if it still had a face. To be granted such power after so much hard work, only for one of the few in all of creation capable enough to stop it appeared before it. Unsteady, Malad took one step back. Fire lapped at the blacksteel boots it wore, and it could feel the holy pressure threatening to bite through that accursed metal. None of Blackfist’s measures had prepared for this, at least, not enough for his minions to stand up against it.

Was this why the Dark Lord had spent so much time studying Sint, after his death at her hands?

Was it because he had seen this war, once before? As if to answer Malad, time slowed to a stop, the sky growing dark again. This was something all servants of the Dark Lord had grown used to. The Dark Lord’s realm. Shrouded in shadow, Stonetalon faded to black, before a line of crimson candles lit the way to a throne wrought of ichorous earth. 

Before the Dark Lord, Malad was rendered merely as Aerick again. Such ascendent strength was nothing to his master. He knelt. “...My Lord. I don’t understand.”

A fog covered the throne, but Aerick could see the colossal form of his master move. His all-consuming voice ripped through the relatively peaceable dark, conquering the shadow and Aerick’s thoughts of safety. His voice alone was a reminder that Aerick’s life and strength were all dependent on his master, and there was no future away from his master’s path. “Aerick Dagon. You had a question.”

“I meant no disrespect, but I never could understand why you spent so much time on my daughter.” Aerick was free to speak plainly to his master, duplicity was never necessary with a being of such power. “I never saw anything but disappointment in the girl, so to see her again, so unlike what she was before… To think that she was the War you were so focused on, it boggles the mind.”

“That is the problem with mortals. Such limited perspective.” The Dark Lord seemed to rest his chin against his fist, heavy armor rattling as he moved. “Where you saw the limits of her physical being, you never saw what she was. It is why you appealed to me. Why any mortal appeals to a God.”

“My Lord?” Dagon looked up at his master, perplexed.

“Weakness. You were a weak little creature, scraping and fighting for tiny pieces of power. You had no knowledge. You had nothing but your duplicity.” The Dark Lord pointed at Aerick. “Then you began to serve our master. And then, me.” There was a slight note of disdain in the Dark Lord’s voice. “You were nothing, and then became powerful. Why is it a stretch that your blood could do the same?”

“She’s surpassed me, my Lord. I stand no chance! It’s preposterous, but ultimately true. How? What let this happen?” Not unlike War, Aerick was outraged.

“The answer is simple. You discarded things that you regarded as weaknesses, whilst she never possessed those weaknesses. Sniveling, conniving, arrogant. You are a common stereotype that managed just slightly to break the mold by bending the knee to your betters, with dignity.” Blackfist stood, his glowing blue eyes never looking away from Aerick. “She is better. She is more than your blood, far more. Do you not see, foolish man? You forced the world to make her into what she is. War is a product of your arrogance.”

Aerick shook his head. He stood with balled fists, fury evident on his spectral face. “...Impossible!” 

“Do not make a fool of yourself. Calm yourself, man.” Blackfist grabbed his helmet from where it rested on his throne, the Dark Lord now descending from his seat. “Your battle is not yet lost. After all, I expected her to fall to this. You were bait.”

The dark world broke away and once again, Malad was whole. Shaken, yet whole. It- no… he. He saw the clouds begin to blaze with the same ferocity his daughter was displaying. It took less than a second for the wraith to return to his plan of battle, to hold War off as long as he could before his Black Legion escort won the battle. He expected to see his superior forces running down the remnants of the Horde squadron, only to be surprised to see that his forces were being pushed into a standstill. A few elven glaives were caught in the mud, opening the wraith’s eyes to the fact that the Black Moon finally reached the Dark Lord’s land. Blackfist would be displeased.

Another swipe of War’s blade shook Malad to his senses, forcing the wraith to prepare for another heavy impact. Summoning a dark barrier this time, he just barely saved his sword from being bent in twain by the weapon of the wrathful. The dark was easily broken, like taking a sledge to glass. This could not be kept up for much longer, until Malad looked upon his compatriot. Yama-O was clearly damaged from her fight against the Horde and the human ranger, but she had fight left in her. The only thing was, she did not rush to his aid. It looked to Malad that Yama was waiting for War to kill him, to give her a one on one battle with War. 

“You idiot! Stop gawking at me and help me defeat the Dark Lord’s enemy! If we win today, we will be afforded great glory!” Malad called to her, and it almost seemed in vain. The younger wraith rolled her head back and forth, groaning and moaning in thought. Then, something must have clicked in her bellicose head.

“Right. If she can kill you, then she could cream me.” She curled her hands into claw-like shapes. “Not that being killed by her isn’t a dream, but I’m not out to die today.”

“I’m not going to ask what fantasies are in your head, Yama. Just… Keep it reigned in.” Malad lifted his sword, tracking the slowly advancing War. “I want to last beyond this day, as I have strived much too long for power to die by this petulant child’s hand.”

“Whatever you say. I’m just amped to fight someone this strong.” Yama sounded excited, much to Malad’s intense displeasure. He could never understand how Yama-O could be so eager to fight powers that dwarfed her own. “Think she puts up as good a fight as master does?”

“If she does, then we will die.” Malad brought his blade in front of him, lifting it up just slightly. He gripped the hilt of it with his other hand, bringing the sword down into a short guard. “Such a thing cannot be the truth.”   
  
“You say a lot of things aren’t possible. But you thought it was impossible she could even be this tough, and then she is.” The younger wraith probably would have sneered at her if this form had a face.

He steadied himself. “Well. The truth is a fickle mistress. Today, I hope it is on my side, for once in my bloody life.”

Approaching slowly, War’s slow march was greatly intimidating. Akin to a prowling predator, it was impossible to tell when she was going to pounce. The shadow she cast was long and great, as if she were a colossus amongst them all. Her brother had stood a colossus of war, but she was not something belonging to war. She was not the Shadow of War. That name was a lie. It was simply wrong. Beholding what stood before him now was simply done, now. There was no theory. There was no need to think about what his daughter became.

Blackfist was right to do all he did in preparation. If it even mattered now.

War, not the Shadow of War nor Sint Dagon, stood against him here. And it was a result of his own hubris. With nothing else to blame but his own deeds, he steeled himself for the consequences. It did not take long for them to hit. As she neared, he lunged, his blade thrusting forward with quite a bit of might. If he could take her off-guard, Yama could capitalize and send War on the backfoot. Alas, it seemed she was truly inexorable. His blade was easily caught by War’s bare hand, knocked to the side as if it were a child’s plaything.

Yama did her best to try to protect her superior, a flurry of lightning-fast jabs flung into War’s side. And it left her mostly unphased, a snarl on her face. She spun her fist into Yama’s head, sending the wraith spiraling into the dirt. Ora-Ur audibly cursed. “You’re kidding! It took three of us to land a good hit on her!”

“And she still would’ve killed us.” Ko’hea added, dryly.

“I knew it was smart to wait.” Aranor added with a triumphant note, although his confidence quickly wavered. He seemed to doubt the success of his plan ‘to wait for Sint’.

Malad stood, trying to regain his poise. The wraith danced backwards. Using as much noble footwork he could, he tried to maintain the posture of a fencer now, using his sword more as a thrusting weapon than a slashing weapon. To be fair, his blade was slim and simple, much unlike the more gaudy weapons many of the other wraiths used. Only Yama could claim to have something more mundane, as her fists were her only weapon. As War swung her sword in an unruly arc, Malad began to see that this threat was not as grave as he first believed. Although she could kill him with ease, she was flailing like a rampaging beast. Each strike was fast, but the speed was not something he could not adjust to. Blackfist made him his First Blade for a reason, for Malad carried an uncanny trait to understand a person by looking at them.

Sure it took him a moment to read his own daughter, but to be fair, she did startle him by still even drawing breath. So what if he saw her before and disregarded his suspicion due to his doubts? He second guessed himself. A rare thing, but it happened. He would clean this mess up, as it was his duty. After years of burying rivals and rising through the social structure of gloomy, paranoid Gilneas, it was only right that he was able to size someone up and dispatch them. Just usually, he didn’t have to do it personally. Usually that miscreant, Lord Gyre, would do the dirty work for him.

Karth was a continent away, doing whatever the bidding of one of his master’s “allies”. He could not rely on the Malevolent here. He pranced around his daughter’s raging blows, each strike boiling stone and scarring the earth. It was true that he did not wish to be on the receiving end of any of them, as they continued to grow stronger and stronger. Yama watched, waited. It was good that that ruffian could understand when to wait for her superior’s signal. Malad deflected a strike that got too close for comfort, casting a quick shadowstep to get him behind Yama. War was practically frothing as she looked around for him, likely only seeing red. “My my, Sint. You’ve gotten quite proficient with your craft! To think you’d excel at the trade I wanted you to bother with the least. It’s as if you did everything you could to spit on your own father’s hard work.” He gave a curt chuckle. “It’s a shame, however, that you fight like that mongrel. I should have had Dengarl killed, not allowed to taint you nor Santo. But he did, and here I am, suffering the consequences.”

“Uh… boss?” Yama stepped back a few paces, nearly bumping into Malad. There was a clear hesitation in her voice.

“What is it? Do not waste my time.” Malad was in the midst of declaring victory. What could this buffoon have to say- then Malad started to follow the direction Yama was looking. The fiery gash wrought in the earth started to glow brighter as furious blazing walls of fire spouted up. Like the talons of a phoenix, they cast darkness away like a father would his belligerent son. Malad didn’t quite understand until he looked back to War, who stood eerily still near the most recently cut scar. 

“What did you say? Kill Dengarl?” Her voice was light, but it was not kind. Unlike the ominous and heavy-handed speech before, Sint seemed as far away as the stars. “My brother. The one who saved my life, time and time again. The one who helped me see the light that never was given to me? The one who died so that I could live?” But Malad had to remember that this warrior was Sint no longer. As her grip tightened on her blade, she turned to face him, both hands now wrapped around its hilt. She looked up, tears in her eyes. “Everyone is dead because of you. I considered that you were just a phantom using my father’s voice… but even a phantom wouldn’t remember my brother’s name.”

Malad could feel Yama tense. She fought like a wild animal, that one, but she also had the senses of one. For a moment, he swore the flames transformed themselves into a skull or a scythe of some sort, though he was wise enough to know it was his mind playing tricks on him. For in truth, he saw what happened. The wall of flame now encircled the three of them. No escape. Either he worked out how to kill War, or both he and Yama would be turned into dust and thrown into the wind.

“You didn’t believe that Aerick was capable of these things? That revered Lord Dagon could not commit such deeds? The world is not a clean place, Sint. Our bloodline is tainted! Look at yourself now, controlled by the very magic planted into the first of our lineage! Why would you come here, other than to serve the whims of the beasts who control this world? Blackfist gave me a chance to break our chains!” He put one foot forward, his fist brought up. “This world is a prison!”

War did not give a response, only lifting her blade into a proper stance. It was clear that this deity was prepared to take his head for his words. Never had he expected to fight in a ring of white flames, a black moon looming over head, battling to the death with a divinity. In truth, Aerick did not expect many things that happened to him over the years. If you asked any of the people present for the battle today if they expected any of this to happen, they would have probably turned you down and called you insane for even suggesting the notion. Yet there they were. Malad prepared to return to his dance, the duelist's posture returned.

Then, Malad found himself face to face with the warring divinity, her blade coming to take his head. He pushed Yama into the path of the blade. “Malad?!” And then, one moment Yama was there, the next the echo of her screams were all that remained. Malad watched Yama get obliterated from this world, and a deep terror filled him. Something unlike he’d ever felt, even when he died and when he first faced his master. He hadn’t even felt this terror at the thoughts of failing the Dark Lord.

It wasn’t his smartest choice to leap through the molten firewall, but what choice else did he have? War would crush him with ease. The least he could do is attempt to flee. All of his confidence in his power, all of his confidence in his talent, it went to waste. Malad came to this battle unprepared, and was about to die for it. But War did not chase him. As he lay on the ground, forced to discard much of his binding armor due to it being melted together, he had expected to meet the same fate as Yama-O. Yet he didn’t. That fearsome glowing blade did not pierce his chest, that ferocious glare did not burn him. He only found that he was in the company of a few of the Black Legion who remained, who were quickly being pushed back. They had the Horde, they did! This day was supposed to end with the birth of a new Wraith Knight, with the Horde squadron crushed. Instead, Yama-O was vanquished and her entire escort was in shambles. And he nearly faced his true death.

He swallowed what remained of his ascendent pride, feeling very human in the face of the true divine. The power of the Dark Lord may have been his own, but he could not claim to hold a candle to either War or Conquest.

A shout belted from the fire, before it burst. Many of the Black Legion were vaporized by the blast wave, but so too were many of the Horde. Malad looked on, perplexed. He then watched his salvation, and perhaps the true reason the Dark Lord sent him here this day. Both to humble him and to witness his enemy’s downfall. Blindly, War started to swing at the Horde soldiers, and even a few sentinels who had leapt into the fray. He watched as the sentinel leader, a nightborne, and the three who battled Yama-O rushed to stop their ally. 

War was untamed. War was unbidden. War came like a true inferno, to burn all the world to ash. Such was her hatred. Such was her fury. And thus, it was her greatest weakness. Sint Dagon was being driven mad by the fire within her, by the War she had become.

“This is Goth’gor’s victory. My lord… I am sorry to have ever doubted you!” And with the death that now seeped into the environment, Malad was able to use it to turn himself into a cloud of misty magic. The First Blade was eager to see his reward for providing his master with victory.

He saw death in that fire.

The death of Azeroth.

The Banished One’s victory.

Blackfist’s victory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end of the first arc of Conquest. Strange that it took me so long, huh? I had a busy year, all things considered, and am glad that Conquest even got to this point! Our next arc will be very different to this one, if you can't already tell by how this one ends. Sint's madness and the fire's strength within her does not bode well for the people opposed to Blackfist. As you saw, her madness turns her into something akin to a rampaging demigod, a thing named War. 
> 
> As Xagroth Blackfist stands for the conquest of the world, Sint stands for the war to burn the world down. This is a conflict, now, between two riders of the apocalypse.


	15. Once in a Lifetime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second part has begun! Welcome to the Coalition of War!

**_A blur._ **

**An echo.**

_ A beat. _

_ Shafts of light broke through great and immovable shadows, as if the world of dark had been reborn as a world of light. Sleep, so simple and easy, broken away back to a cruel world of duality. Perhaps it would have been nice to remain in an easy place such as that, a cold yet comforting place, far away from the heat of hatred. _

_ But this sleeping soul could feel the harshness of the real world on their skin, could see the light of one hateful star through cracked lids, and could smell death in the air. These things were free from the depths of a dreamless slumber.  _

Hands gripped uselessly at the ground as the soul stirred, rising in a haze. What felt like a raging fire burned through their head. The pain was all that kept the soul from returning to oblivion, their mind catching up. They were Sint Dagon. She, only what felt like a second ago, was clutching her head as Dragonfire whipped up into a fury around her. Now she was on her back, body wracked in a similar pain that filled her consciousness when the fires began to take over. The smell of brimstone and burnt flesh wafted through the air, which is what woke her. Groggy, she rose from the makeshift bed she laid on. It was more a bedroll, her head propped up just barely by a log and a pillow. 

There was no time to wonder how she got here, what was going on, or even if her war was still ongoing. She was not a prisoner here, at least, things didn’t seem to be near reinforced enough to hold her. Lifting as slowly as she could to avoid any further pains, her vision was able to refocus and pay attention to the details of the room she was in. Surprisingly, it was a room. At first, she thought it was a hollowed out tree, but then caught herself as she knew well enough the signs of treeweaving. Grown by song and kindness, a small brush of trees would be molded into any shape, as a mutual trade between a druid and the ecosystem around them. Then it was likely she was still in the custody of the night elves, but… She shook her head. She slapped her hands against her face to psyche herself awake, jumping as she did. That got the blood flowing, a little. 

She reached for a weapon, but didn’t find one. So, she’d have to improvise. Looking around the room for any furniture, she came up empty of anything she could use. That was until she looked back to the bedroll propped against that log. Crude, but it’d suffice. Lacking armor and dressed in the little underneath her battlegear, Sint wrapped a blanket around her neck. She swung the log through the air a few times, testing its heft. Everything was prepared by the time Sint peered through the ajar doorway. Senses still fuzzy and head still throbbing, she could barely make out what she saw through the blinding sunlight. Had she really slept through the morning?

Two fighters stood nearby, both pointy enough to probably be elves. She spoke. “Sold-” Then she caught herself in surprise, her voice notably much deeper than usual. Had she slept that deeply? “Ahem. Soldiers. What’s the situation?”

Taller than her, the first sentry looked down with obvious surprise. The night elf, touched by the Night Warrior, was stained with soot and blood. Auburn eyebrows furrowed. “The healer told the truth…”

The other elf, a high elf, nodded slowly. Calmer than his partner, he spoke evenly. “Lady Dagon, shouldn’t you be resting? Your last battle took a lot out of you.” Betraying the look on his face and the candor of his voice, he started to white-knuckle his sword’s grip.

“I restate the question, though this time, I demand to know what is going on.” She didn’t like the tone of her own voice, but it seemed to convince the night elf to speak. He was clearly more rattled than his partner.

“You don’t remember? Well, let me catch you up. You’re in Halicanaar, a settlement my people had to abandon during the start of the War.” He did his best to ignore the glare he got from his partner. Anxious, he gulped. “The Silver Battalion’s been using it for a moment as a sort of garrison. Though, it looks like we’re going to have to abandon it.”

“Abandon it?” Sint shook her head. “I will not flee from this foe. Give me your sword.”

The high elf’s calm expression broke. The nerves were evident in his stuttering tone. “H-he can’t do that, ma’am.”

“Are you denying me, soldier?” Despite her height, the elf felt as if she were looking down at him. “On whose orders?”

“Someone with good interest in keeping us all alive, including you.” The high elf stepped back, his sky-blue eyes narrowing at her. “You clearly don’t know what’s going on. Do you even remember the Scouring of the Whitebloom fields, or was that all done in a fit of blind anger?”

“The scouring?” Lady Dagon stood back, a colorful glare now cutting through her features.

The elf trembled in anger. Though he stood before such a force of destruction, he did not fear to speak his mind. “You leapt from the sky and defied everything right in the world. It still burns. Those fields still burn!” With that, he grit his teeth, and ran off to defend what remained of the camp. The night elf looked to the side, his abyss stained eyes betraying the internal struggle he was going through.

If Sint’s gut feeling was right, she lost control. Dragonfire finally overwhelmed her senses and turned her rabid. A pit formed in her gut as she felt a sinking feeling hit. It wasn’t the enemy that had these people scared. Nor was it the Black Legion’s fault that she woke up in unfamiliar territory. It was entirely her fault, her problem. It wasn’t as if she didn’t know she was losing control. The hot flashes. The anger that wasn’t her own. Pain in her heart. The spirits of her ancestors. Some divine force had hijacked the soul of her family, and was burning her from the inside. She knew this. But she didn’t know how to stop it, or how bad it got. Something  **disgusting** brewed inside of her. She could feel it. Worse than the black volcano in the Redridge. Worse than the malefic rage of a mad dragon, far worse than the righteous fury that powered the armies of the Light. No. This was not a mundane anger. This was not a divine anger. Though compelled by both mortality and immortality, the thing within Sint was nothing short of world-ending.

And she needed it. These people, this army… they needed it. This horrendous thing that coiled around her heart, that ripped away her sanity. People needed it for the battles ahead.

Her brother came to peace with the fire within, but it was perhaps because he never needed to call upon its truth in combat. Fire was something he was known for, that was a certainty, but he never once invoked the thing that was turning Sint to ash. She cursed. “Damnit… if only he were alive…”

“Milady?” The elf fiddled nervously with the hilt of one of two sheathed blades. “Did you say something?”

“No. Perhaps it’s best that I leave the fighting to the defenders of Halicanaar.” An unsettling burst of energy started to rip away the fatigue that once seeped into her bones. Like a winter chill chased away by the warmth of a much too early summer. Such energy was hard to hide from her voice, which lacked the immediate sensations of someone stirred suddenly from a long and deep sleep. “If what I suspect is true, then I cannot act with a good conscience. Madness has no use on the field.”

“If I may, Lady Dagon?” He seemed to be slowly gathering his resolve. 

“You are clearly not under my command. Speak your mind.” She casually gestured for him to speak, certain he’d have little of importance to add. That was because she failed to remember the similar state of the night elves, their patron Goddess’ wrath quite literally painted across their faces. 

“Usually, faced with great power, I find myself unshaken. I am witness to so many spectacular things, some that you may even find unimaginable. The time of the Ancients, when the land was filled with endless splendor and magic, freed from the grime of this modern age. Suramar is the last remnant of that which was, and you know of its glory.” The elf drew one of his weapons. “There were those who even made your Guardians look small.”   
  
“But I frighten you?” Sint did not expect to hear this from the elf.

“Is that so shocking?” The kaldorei shook his head, his eyes closed. “Yes. You horrify me, young one. You reflect something that the High Priestess faces, madness at the end of a necessary power.” He then looked at her, his sight both scrutinizing yet horrified. “What haunts me is the voices of the people I have seen lost to great power, but none have ever been as great as yours or the Night Warrior’s. I don’t know where your’s came from, Lady Dagon, but I already hear the dead screaming your name.”

That sent a shiver down Sint’s spine.

“Hail to a new God.” He knelt, offering his sword. “I feel you do not need this, but it is a gift nonetheless. Anta’dorini Talah.”

**_Let your will be known._ ** She held the elf’s blade as he left, drawing his other to join his comrades in battle. Sint did not urge to join him, speechless, frozen where she stood. It was no secret to the world that the Children of the Stars were the most devout souls in the world. Faith was not something debated within night elvish society, it was an easy fact. Elune, and all things ascribed to Elune, were true. They needed no interpretation. They needed no guidance based on Elune’s word. If there was a night elf that existed who did not believe in Elune, Sint had never met or heard of the sort. Nor had she seen many kaldorei’s faiths shaken. Even the Burning of Teldrassil proved to strengthen their faith in their goddess, even as she failed to protect them in their hour of greatest need. They stood, black-eyed and grey-skinned, paragons of a wrathful deity. 

But that one, that defender of Halicanaar, just offered tribute to her as a goddess. He spoke in undeniable heresies to her, even as he wore the battle-garb of his goddess. 

“Do you know what Halicanaar was, before it fell?” A spectral voice rose from behind her, gruff and familiar. Sint did not need to turn to know it was Svenrir who spoke. “Now, before we get ahead of ourselves, yes. I didn’t stop your rampage.”

“You were even aware? I flailed like a berserk devilsaur, chewing up everything in my path.” Sint finally let the log in her hand drop, now swinging her new weapon. “Surprising that you kept your awareness through all of that.”

“The power you hold is your’s. What you do with it has little effect on us, at least, not in a way that could harm us.” The man walked to where Sint could see him, standing to her side. He was notably clearer than the last time she spoke to him, his body not made of pure golden energy. It was like looking at a man through a piece of colored glass, now, and if that man was mildly translucent. “In fact, that rampage empowered us. I doubt the Black Legion could threaten Giant’s Landing now, if the Gift-Giver was juiced up just like the rest of us.”

“So then, why? Why did you stand back?” Sint didn’t dare to yet look him in the eye, rage bubbling in her chest.

“To be honest, there was nothing I could’ve done about that.” Svenrir was brutally honest. “I am a spirit. You were outputting enough firepower to outpace a Legion ship. The hell am I supposed to do? Swing my not real axe at you?”

“Fair point.” Sint grimaced. “But you didn’t even say a thing.”

The ghostly warrior knew she’d say that, even though his face showed a bit of surprise. Even expected, it wasn’t something he wanted to answer. He drew in a hesitant breath, also surprised that a ghost could do such a thing. He sat in a chair manifested from golden light. “You know how it is.”

Sint narrowed her eyes. “Do I?”

He rubbed his great black beard, grumbling in thought. “You do. Talking about these things, it’s never been easy. Not for you, not for me, not for anyone in your bloodline. We’re not open people. We don’t talk to anyone about our… troubles.” Svenrir sighed. “It always shocked me that I never met your father. Did I observe him? Of course. He had the gift. He knew he had the gift. But he never reached out. He always attempted to find it in such… faulty ways. Dengarl found it at the depths of despair, as the sole light remaining in his life. You found it after facing a great trauma, the strength of your will ushering in power. Artessa found it through her unbreakable faith. I found it because of a sheer act of bravery, something no other man would’ve done. Every Dagon who has touched the power of the Gift did something great to deserve it. Each of us stood strong through the tides of darkness before we could carry this torch, because we needed to prove ourselves.”

Sint remained silent. Sven paused to allow her to speak, as she tended to have questions for these sorts of things. But Sint’s curiosity was nowhere to be seen. Just silence. The first Dagon chose to keep going. “Your father never did these things. He always tried to cheat it, and he hurt so many to reach it. You. Dengarl. Koda. Even Santo, the boy he doted on.” 

“...Brother.” Sint then gave her forefather an urgent look. “Even him?”

“It wasn’t a true father’s devotion. I treated my boys fairly and with a sturdy hand, but never in the way Aerick did. Aerick saw Santo as the way to finally achieve the power he thought was destined to be his.” The spirit shook his head. “You are right to say you have no father, Sint. Even thinking that Aerick is related to me makes me wish I could possess bodies to chase him down and end him with my own hands.”

Sint closed her eyes. “I feel awful for putting so much faith on the shoulders of Dengarl, while Santo died protecting us all. I hope he died without knowledge of this fire… This horrible thing within me.”

“I doubt Santo begrudges you much for loving Dengarl more than you loved him. Perhaps the realization stung at the time, but his heart was in a good place when he died.” Svenrir stood, that magical seat evaporating into gilded mist. “His heart was full of love when he gave his life. Love for his family, for his wife, for his son. For you. For Dengarl. Even for Geneva, a girl his father always insisted was lowly trash.”

Sint lowered her sword in a fluid movement, lifting her chin up and opening her eyes. Where one may have expected a joyous sadness, there was only resolve. “Thank you, Svenrir. I think I know what Halicanaar is. It’s a tomb, and these guardians stand to defend the honor of the dead. What use does the Black Legion have coming here, other than to take me?”

“I can’t say. While you were out, I tried to do my best to keep an ear open. But travel’s a little restricted when the fire is dim.” He jabs a thumb towards the direction of the fighting. “What is somewhat telling, though, is that they attacked the defenders first. They didn’t come for you, at all. Nor did they go for the tombs. Now, you’ve got to get back into the fight. We’ve done our best to renew your strength, now use it.”

Halicanaar wasn’t completely abandoned, Sint could see it. As she ran forward to leave the small encampment that was built around the woven home she was sequestered in, she could see the signs that people still lived here. It had been mostly left to ruin, however, and she could see the scars of recent warfare evident. Buildings were punctured by artillery fire. A temple lay shattered and scattered not far from her, atop a central hill. But, what was most striking, were the remains of the great tomb. She wasn’t aware that the Kaldorei kept crypts like Halicanaar’s great tomb, but it dwarfed even the temple complex of Darnassus in scale. It was built into a mountain, akin to many ancient fortresses of the Highborne, even hewn of the same black stone. Was it possible Halicanaar was one of the few remaining Highborne cities left on Azeroth?

Sigils of the old dynasty were prevalent across the stonework that she could see, though she was certain the tomb went much further and became more ornate the further in she went. Some entrances were buried by sediment or by crumbling stone. It was clear, however, that great pains had been taken to make sure the structure was maintained. Then it hit her that the statues she swore she saw were elves. At least thirty of them stood still, each at a post, well armed and covered in armor. 

It gave her the message that the tomb was extremely sacred to these people. Their city lay under siege and over half abandoned, yet they didn’t leave the side of their duty. She gave a nod to them, even if they didn’t see her, to promise that she would break this siege eventually. The bloodied night elf didn’t stand too far away from where Sint had run, surrounded by dead orcs. He was breathing heavily, his sword stained with black blood. “War has come at last. Do you fight this day, to turn this land to ash, or do you come to spare it?”

“I wish to leave this place to its defenders. To fight a war, I require valuable allies, and this place is not their hold.” War observed, seeing how limited the defenses of Halicanaar were. “This is an outpost, a place to keep me far away from the heart of it all.”

“They feared a wrathful awakening. If it is your desire to meet with the coalition, then I shall take you to them.” The elf wiped the blood from his blade by passing it through the crook of his elbow. “I will warn that those within the Coalition do not wish to see you. Their hearts have been hardened to your path, as your wrath harmed many of them.”

“I care not for their hearts. I only care that they are useful and willing to fight.” Sint was frightened by her own voice. The role of a goddess was not one she wished to take, but it felt like it was natural for her to possess the role. “If they cannot fight, then I will fight without them. Conquest does not stand opposed only by them.”

“The path is clear for now, Great War. Let us away from Halicanaar, before the spirits of the old dynasty are roused any further.” The elvish soldier pointed through a line of hanging ivy, where a clear draft was blowing through. “That path shall take us to the Land of the Goddess, where the Black Legion does not dare chase yet. Whitebloom serves as a reminder of what happens if they dare cross over, even if Whitebloom was your doing.”

Sint quirked a cut eyebrow. “They believe Elune is responsible for something I did?”

“Yes. Otherwise, they would have to admit you are alive.” The elf cracked a small smile. “Admitting that you are a true warring divinity would be an admittance of defeat. Thus, they choose to think that you perished in white flames that still yet rage. You hold the advantage.”

War smiled. Sint was uneasy. Either way, the march had to continue. What happened at the “Scouring of Whitebloom” was far from Sint still, and she needed to learn. She needed to remember, she needed to win. The Dark Lord would not conquer her victory that easily.


	16. To Shatter the World

“...Thus ends my report. Halicanaar is taking a beating, but she still sleeps. Regrettably, to get here, I lost a sword. May the goddess forgive my mistake.” Stained in soot and blood, the Night marked elvish warrior gave a half-bow and quickly left the room, leaving a coalition in a strained silence. Formed of sheer necessity after being brought together by fate and war, they all had met on the fateful day of War’s grand rampage. With her downfall, they needed to band together to succeed against the evil they faced. Though, it was questionable what each of them considered was evil.

Tarro Stardew saw evil in every ally she worked alongside. Even her own soldiers had sparks of malice deep within them. They were willing to do anything to avenge Teldrassil and reclaim the power of the Kaldorei on Kalimdor. Dedication such as that should be promoted. But, that very same dedication can drive an elf to great sin. The Wardens sent in secret? Some of the strongest and most valiant souls in all the world were found within that order of jailers. But there it was, they were masters of the prison. Nothing escaped them easy, and if driven to great desperation, they can and will seal a life away for the rest of eternity. The humans from across the sea or born far away from home were predisposed to chaos, so the Sentinel Commander saw, and that does not mean they were meant for evil. Chaos is the heart of Life, after all. But this chaos drove men to be fickle and unpredictable, oftentimes taking even humans off guard. Their minds can be driven to strange and particular places when faced with dilemmas easily solved by an elf, and while sometimes that peculiarity causes a breakthrough, it regularly drives a man to darkness. 

The “allies” outside of the Silver Battalion were more obviously evil. The Horde burned away ancient lands in a disgusting display of sheer hatred. The Zandalari harbored the Horde’s genocidal campaign and helped them along in the Fourth War, even fully joining the Horde. But, Tarro could understand that greater evils exist. A lesser evil can be used as a tool against a greater sin. And even if the lesser evil fell, that was a victory for Elune. The mercenaries that the Horde involved weren’t particularly dark beings, though Tarro never had a soft spot for the types who dictated their entire lives based off of the coin they received. Avaricious, but their loyalty tended to be assured in cases like these. 

The thoughts of Ko’hea were much less complicated. She watched the elves with great superstition, as if she were looking at an army of foul specters. From time to time, the Warguard prayed to her Loa to lessen the wrath of this enraged cohort.

Ludrasa regarded both suspiciously. She knew Ko’hea was an honest sort, but she still served the Horde. Trusting the Horde was a mistake. The other elf, however, greatly unnerved her. A nightborne was hardly different to a night elf. At least, that’s how it should be. Looking into the darkened eyes of those touched by the Black Moon, however, told the Panther that they were no longer close kin. 

Ko’hea and Ludrasa both disliked the report given by the auburn haired Silver Battalion soldier. His voice was oddly detached for how battered his armor was, how slick with black blood his sword was. Instead of asking for a medic or a new weapon to replace his lost blade, he simply begged Elune’s forgiveness. Unsettling. Ever since the Coalition was founded, they continued to uncover Black Legion operations across Stonetalon, Ashenvale, and even Azshara. There was further evidence that the Black Legion acted across the entire world in some grandiose scheme, but the Coalition could not prove that. They were stuck where they were, as their forces were being worn out and pushed back by an endless tide of black metal and dark magic. Halicanaar was the last major outpost they held outside of the Land of the Goddess. The moment Blackfist controlled it, the Coalition’s battle would become hopeless. 

That’s part of the reason the soldier’s report disturbed the other two Coalition heads. He spoke how the Halicanaar defenses were being overrun in a calm tone, one matched by Tarro. The uneasy silence was finally broken by that damnable elf, her tone still even. “I must ask. What is your verdict on the matter?”

Ludrasa sneered. “Don’t like how you refer to us basically losin’ the fight as if it were just another day on the job.”

Warguard Ko’hea had a dangerous look on her face. “Hnnn… You know, Stardew, you do seem too calm for the situation we’re in? Are you withholding information from us?”

“No. I simply have faith that the Black Legion cannot claim Halicanaar.” The elf curled her fingers around the handle of her glaive, running the tip of one of her fingers across the sharp of it. “War will not let them have it.”

“War shouldn’t be there. As much as I don’t like her being in the heart of our ops, she’ll just end up gettin’ set off if she’s woken by the Black Legion.” Ludrasa jabbed a dagger into the table they sat around, glaring at the Sentinel Commander. “How the hell can you be so DAMN CALM?!”

“The Dark Lord cannot win this battle.”

Their arguing was interesting to the one who listened in, the one they were so worried about. Although Tarro seemed confident, or at least appeared to have a contingency plan, the rest seemed worried about the future of their war against the Dark Lord. Indeed, as she tugged her hood a little lower, Sint Dagon pondered whether or not this coalition stood a chance even against Malad. That was, of course, if Malad was alive after the so-called Scouring of Whitebloom. Her sole ally in this effort, the auburn haired warrior Silen, rounded the corner to catch her listening in on the council. Silen gave Sint a cloak to hide her easily amongst the refugees of the western men, and Sint’s necklace did well to obscure her immense magical presence. That did nothing to hide her physical presence, of course, so they still did their best to keep away from prying eyes.

Sint gestured for the warrior to join her away from the council’s hall, towards a pavilion where more humans were gathered. The elf nodded and joined her without a second thought. “They do not suspect us.” 

“They do not, Lady Dagon. Allow me to inform you where you’ve arrived.” He kept his voice low. “This is the heart of the Silver Battalion’s territory, once a Warden prison. Their forces would train here, but primarily, it served as a place the Wardens kept prisoners they couldn’t transport to Azuna.” 

“Considering the location of Halicanaar, it makes sense. The Wardens wanted to keep an eye on the Highborne, and built a prison to catch them if they crossed the line.” Sint frowns. “Though, that begs the question. Did they leave anything behind?”

“No. When we arrived, the tower and much of the prison was completely empty. Some wildlife made homes in the empty cellblocks, but nothing concerning remained.” He gestured to the looming tower. “We’ve left the primary tower mostly alone after our preliminary expedition. There’s a segment of collapsed stairway that leads down, atypical to warden building habits, that concerned us enough to leave it empty.”

Sint eyed the Warden structures, checking if there were any signs of struggle. Though the Silver Battalion had done quite a bit to claim the area as their own, their own fortifications replacing several outdated or ruined Warden battlements, she could still see the original construction beneath the renovations. “Strange that the Wardens built something this large, nonetheless. You’re certain it wasn’t the Watchers?”

“It could have been Watchers led by a Warden, but it makes little difference. If a Warden led, then this was a Warden endeavor.” Silen slowed to a stop, leaning against a wall. “We’ve attempted to contact the Wardens to no avail, so for now, we’ve only been left with the same conclusion we came to for Halicanaar. Abandoned during the Fourth or sooner due to Horde aggression in the region.”

“You’ve had to replace much. To me, that makes it feel like this place has been left empty for much longer than recent history.” Her arms crossed, eyes now wandering. With few friends in a strange land, Sint needed more than just her strength and the support of Silen. These people didn’t trust her, that alone was clear. “How long has the Battalion been here?”

“Our leader has been out here ever since she entered the military, but the Battalion itself? Hard to say.” Silen didn’t have any reason to lie to Sint, so for now she trusted that this was the truth. “Many of us have lived in this place for thousands of years. I have called a stretch of land close to here my home ever since I came into this world. The Battalion as a force has been here for a little over six years, but many of us have been here since the age of Azshara.”

“Long enough.” In her observation, she could see what she could not before. When she marched through the mountains with Aranor Royson, the signs of the Black Legion were few. Where they walked, they found only the Black Legion itself, not what it had wrought across the land. In truth, Sint didn’t suspect that the Black Legion could have done so much. The Silver Battalion camp must’ve once been a small affair, filled only with the ruling echelon of the group. The great tower and the few buildings scattered through this old Warden camp only seemed to confirm that, as the Battalion didn’t appear to employ the use of the underground dwellings of the Wardens. Night elves didn’t usually dig that far into the ground nor did they tend to build with stone after the Sundering, so it showed that they had a relatively limited population. 

With the amount of tents and makeshift longhouses built in haste, Sint could tell that this place had seen an influx of hundreds of new residents. Refugees all running from the Fourth War or worse. The phenomena of the men of the west was not lost on Sint. For years she had known that humanity had yet to make much of a mark in Kalimdor, but these western men had lived there ever since the age of Azshara. Indeed, the Kaldorei apparently captured ancient men for purposes lost to time. Those men survived and their descendents still carry on to this day. Men more elvish than human. But men, nonetheless. 

“You are considering the refugees, I imagine. For what, Lady War?” Silen stepped around Sint to face her, his night-stained eyes questioning her. All he was told him to revere her, but he was no fool. This elf knew that he could guide this newborn divine, and the woman that he believed to be a god knew she’d be a fool to deny his experience. Even though she was disgusted by the idea of being revered as a god, she knew full well that she needed to carry that title just a little further.

“What else should I consider them as, else other than a potential ally in my march? I am a stranger in an even stranger land. Torn by my very namesake, now being claimed by a dark force. It is not lost on me that this fight is unwelcome and that these people have been fed a truth I oppose. They will not trust me. None in this land will. But they are the best course of action I possess.” Sint clenched her fists. “I did not come here to embroil myself in another battle, Silen. Do you believe me?”

“Of course.” The elf seemed to understand, even if he shouldn’t be able to. “Fate need not understand the course it takes, it simply acts. Even if you did not come to do as you have done, you have acted, and so you must follow this course.” 

“You speak as if you understand why I am here.” A seed of distrust embedded itself in Sint’s core. 

“Does it matter? For family, mind, or heart? It could be simple bloodlust. What matters is that you have caused the rise of something greater, something that even a blind imbecile could see as clear as the Summer Sun.” The elf gestured around himself. “Even though they do not trust you, you should have seen them all when you were reborn. In a second, you were baptized in a flame of your own making, and burned away the notions of the world. None of us, not even the most ancient of us, have ever witnessed the birth of a God. We all assumed that power was locked away and reserved only for the most reverent beings. Whether it is Elune or another power that grants said strength, that being would be born to great ceremony. Their coming would be foretold. You defied that.”

“I am no God.” Sint almost spat her words out.

“So you say, but none of us believe you. Say what you wish, Lady War, you are what you are. Nothing changes the truth of your being. Society, your own thoughts, none of it matters. At the core of your being, you are divine. You are ceaseless. Even if you die, you will live on. This is what it means to be a God.” He bows his head. “To be a God is to be inevitable, to be greater than us all. And you are that.”

She did not respond, her head filling with a blood-rage unlike she had felt before. It wasn’t fair. Over the years, Sint sought an end to her War. Sought an end to the legacy that she chose to bear. It was hard to reconcile that just a year prior, she was just a simple warrior. How could so much happen in her search to finish this conflict?

The world itself was entangled by war. Perhaps it was not her own, but it was a war nonetheless. She stepped away from Silen, giving no signal for him to follow. Whether or not he followed did not matter. It was to escape this tiring subject of divinity, mostly, that Sint left to walk among the men of the west. They appeared no different than the men of the east outside of their dress and markings. Many of the men wore long braided beards, bedecked with dozens of colorful beads. Some of their faces were colored in fantastical markings, resembling the facial tattoos of the kaldorei. Men and women both tended to wear long skirts or robes, and if they did not, they appeared to be fighters. Their warriors were easy to spot as she observed, for they all shared the same set of markings. A constellation of white stars lined their bodies, a celestial signature that covered them from head to toe. These stars held no meaning to her, but to them, she supposed they were a symbol of great bravery. Or perhaps a symbol of a great burden.

Silen spoke. “Many of them do not speak your common, Lady War. There are a few who do, a few who do very well, and I will guide you to them if you seek them.”

“What language do they speak?” Sint was truly curious. “Is it the language of the elves?”

“It is similar, but not the same. A dialect, some call it. In my opinion, it is its own tongue.” He tugged a hood over his head. “I should not be seen here. My post is elsewhere, and my presence with you might guide others to realize you are here. I can only guide you to the longhouse where the Western Men can speak to you. From there, you are on your own. I must caution you. These humans have been isolated from most outside contact for the better part of their entire history. Their people have been alone, outside of our people and the tauren, for at least twelve thousand years.”

“What are the names I should call out for?” Sint observed one of these star-painted warriors size her up.

“The leader of the Winter Army, Jang Vanor Ddraig, is the one you should seek out. If the Jang fails you, the Jang of Onvik might help you. Jang Luthe Kel’bede. Onvik are the men you see around you. The ones marked by starlight.” Silen gestured to the longhouse not far from them. “Within that building, you will find their Jang. She has the support of many, and it would be fair to consider her the leader of most of the men here.”

“So then, why do you suggest this “Winter Army” instead of her? If she has such a strong claim and speaks my tongue, then it should be no trouble to convince her to fight against a foe that has been systematically attempting to wipe out her race.” Sint looked around. “Not to mention I see no hide nor hair of the Winter Army, if all the men with stars are truly Onvik.”

“I suppose it would be easy to explain it this way. Onvik has been in Kalimdor since before the Sundering. They’re, indeed, the most ancient of any human clan or tribe out in these lands. That means they are human only physically, they are nothing like the humans you know back from the East.” He stroked his beard thoughtfully. “But the Winter Army? They come from your Arathor. I remember the day their invasion of Kalimdor began, as small as it was in the beginning. Y Angla Vanor, they introduced themselves as. Some variant of your tongue, certainly.”

“They are not here because Onvik does not tolerate them. The Winter Army is not much weaker than Onvik and its allies, but it sees no point in needless conflict when all men of the west are facing their end.” The elf points back to the outskirts of the camp, filled with tents and unkempt forestland. “Those tents are home to a few Winter Army emissaries. The rest will be found through the southernmost tunnel.”

With these few words, Sint needed little else to go on. The Winter Army might be harder to reach, but they seem to be the most reasonable of the groups. Even if some of the Onvik allied clans were open to her plea for assistance, Onvik was fool enough to stir trouble with their neighbors during a war of extinction. Onvik had been here longest, held the strongest army, and knew the land best- but their leadership was untrustworthy. If they could not tolerate this Winter Army, then they would not tolerate her. She gave no parting words to Silen, but she knew he got the message. It was not as if he wished to stick around with her much longer. Suspicion would flare if he was seen so far away from his post with a stranger, especially a stranger with his supposedly missing sword.

Once more, Sint marched along her path alone. A sign sat at the edge of the camp with words written in five or six different languages. Common and Elvish were the ones she easily recognized, but the other’s? An interesting mix of multiple different languages. She could see roots from Taurahe, Elvish, and even Old Arathorian Common within these words. These must have been the languages of the Western Men. She’d have to ask Silen the names of these languages later. 

The sign was the name of this camp. Blackgrave’s Retreat, so it was called. A strange coincidence that Sint had known a Warden Blackgrave, albeit for a short amount of time. The rifle wielding Gallyan Blackgrave worked alongside her to help track down a cult before her exit from the Alliance’s Military. When that cult was seemingly vanquished, Gallyan was quick to leave her company. This meant Blackgrave had held a sizable chunk of land once, and commanded quite a few soldiers if the size of her barracks were any sign. The world always felt smaller than it really was when these coincidences appeared. Lowering her hood as much as she could to conceal her eyes, Sint walked among the men of the west, guiding herself towards the edge of the camp. She moved at a glacial pace to conceal her urgency and to hopefully make herself anonymous enough to walk to the Winter Army without notice. It was not lost on her that the Onvik and the others did not make the attempt to speak to the Army, so her breaking from the pack to do so without any signs of authority might throw up red flags to the Kaldorei.

That, and she didn’t particularly look like the Western Men outside of her garb. It was strange, to say the least, to see how little she resembled these people. She supposed living separate from the rest of mankind for so many thousands of years would do that, but she could see the differences as clear as day. Mayhaps it would not be as obvious to the elves, as the elves still were mostly unfamiliar to humans, as it was hard for a man to oftentimes tell apart other beings if their kin were unfamiliar to him. Faces blend together in unfamiliarity. So did similarities. With luck, Sint found herself unbothered by the time she left the side of the Onvik. Walking through the no man’s land was easy.

The hard part seemed to be over. Without urgency, she walked to the nearest set of tents. Two men sat around a bubbling pot of stew, speaking to each other in a language close yet equally distant to common in sound. The words were entirely different, however, and almost alien to her ears. The one furthest from her, ladle in hand, was quick to notice her approach. He watched her with a close suspicion. It seemed they both knew the merit in absorbing the look of someone. In his case, he was trying to guess if she was an Onvik fool come to cause trouble. In Sint’s case, she was attempting to study his culture through his garb, and through his mannerisms. The man moved with an openness, his emotion not guarded closely to his heart. His suspicion was as clear as day, so clear that his companion was instantly able to pick up the tell that something was off. He did not reach for a weapon, though, meaning his sort were not quick to cause conflict. They judged a situation before they jumped to action. 

His weapon was not even close to him. She saw their weapons leaned against a nearby tree. A buckler and a spear, next to a fierce looking longsword. “Ishta’nathe!” Shouted the man with the ladle. When she didn’t react, he spoke again. “Ygav vagym?” When she still didn’t react, his suspicion vaporized. “...You are Eastern?” 

The other man spoke a few of the words in their tongue to the man with the ladle. He then turned. “Eastern, ya?”

“I am of the East, yes. Do either of you speak Common well?” She was quick to lift her hands from behind her cloak, a small gesture to show she was holding no weaponry. 

The one with the ladle nodded. “Most of us in the Angla know a few phrases. I’m fluent enough. What do you want, Easterner? Can’t you see that we’re in the middle of something?” He exaggerated the churning of the pot, even lifting some of the stew up and splashing it back into the mix.

“I won’t keep you from your dinner for long. I just need to know the location of your leader, your ‘Jang’.” She’d get used to the word eventually.

“Wanna meet Vanor Ddraig? That’s a first. Most people steer clear of the old brute…” He huffed. “Good to know someone around here gives a bacra about this all.” 

“Bacra?” Sint quirked a brow.

“...Agh, sorry, manners. No cursing around guests.” He gave an awkward laugh. “Name’s Rieve.”

“And I am… Soleil.” The name of her niece would suffice for now. It’s not like the girl was still alive to fight her about it.

“Well, er, Soleil… You mind if we wait until after supper? Ceol and me ain’t had a bite to eat all day, see, so…” He puts on a sheepish grin.

“I do not mind, as long as you don’t take too long. Do not let the lack of urgency in my step fool you like it fooled the elves.” Sint looked Rieve in the eyes. “I need to speak to your leader with great immediacy.”

“Ah.” Rieve almost dropped the ladle. “You ain’t one of the Battalion, eh? Are you…”

The other man, Ceol, whispered a word that Sint did recognize. “...Tyr?”

“You know Tyr, ya?” Rieve looked at Sint. “Well, even if you don’t, you’re the one that can do the white fire thing that burned a hole in the side of this mountain. Right?”

“I know of her, and I act on her behalf.” The lie came easy to Sint, and it was something the other man seemed to believe. At least, he played along. “You call her Tyr? I find that strange. Tyr fell, did he not?”

“Aye, but I suppose that’s a difference in belief. Tyr’s return to shatter the world and save mankind, it’s a bit of a thing in the Winter Army. At first, we all thought Jang Vanor Ddraig was the right fit for Tyr, but he told us that it couldn’t have been true. He was just a great leader, tiding us through the end of days. Holding out for the return of mankind’s shepherd.”

Rieve lifted up his fist, painted completely white. “Then a woman comes from the east, wiping out the forces of darkness that have been hounding us… And she is clad in a silver fury. Javelins of light hurled by her hand broke the earth and drove back evil and the fools who did nothing to stop that very evil.”

“A divine display. I can see why she’d resemble your God to you.” Sint hummed. “But, I will be honest with you. Many of us did not see the Scouring of Whitebloom. Myself included, and my leader is incapable of sharing the truth with us. Did you see it?”

“I was a witness, aye. Half of the people on this mountain were. I’m sure the lightshow was visible halfway across the continent.” He grinned. “The Silver God of War harried the heels of the army of darkness, crushing their leadership and obliterating their forces. But then, out of nowhere, Stardew tried to stop her. So did a few others, to be honest, the same few who now lead this whole coalition. Honestly, Soleil, I lived in Whitebloom. Many of us did at the time, but the destruction was an awesome thing to experience. Corruption was met with justice, darkness could not abide within the realm of the Lawbringer, and so she dashed away any moron who thought they were above her. She was right, they were wrong. Anyone with half a mind saw that and stood back.”

“Why did she stop, then? Why does the battalion still stand?” Sint was appalled by what Rieve said, but didn’t let her emotion reach her face.

“When you can split a mountain open, do you really need to overpower a few fools who got the message? I’m sure she has bigger fish to fry, like this Black Legion.” Rieve took in a deep breath. “Ah! Stew’s done. Nice chat, Soleil. Ceol and I’ll get you to Jang Vanor Ddraig when dusk settles. The Battalion prolly doesn’t want people from War’s camp talkin’ to him.”

“That will be greatly appreciated, Rieve of the Winter Army.” This deception might sting the emissary, but his needs were below her at the moment. She needed to reach Jang Vanor Ddraig. Sint had no plans on lying to the leader of the Winter Army when she arrived, as she knew she had no reason to. If they saw her as the coming of their idolization of Tyr, she would let them do such.

Her course was set to destroy the Black Legion. If this was to shatter the world, then so be it. An army formed of the east and west should be a worthy hammer to break the cycle of war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the language of the winter army is based off of welsh and cornish. the onvik and their allied clans speak a form of elvish because i refuse to call it darnassian! darnassus isn't old enough to name your entire over 10k year old language after, seriously!


End file.
